The Streaker's Defence, Or, A DEMONstrably Bad Idea
by Lampito
Summary: The Streaker's Defence: It seemed like a good idea at the time. And it had; what he'd been hoping for was a fellow wolf to go for a bit of a prowl, not Ozzy bloody Osbourne with a muscle car, a stolen guitar, and no appreciation of Italian architecture. Poor Crowley; he's Karma's football. How I think Season 10 should kick off, with minimum angst and a healthy dose of crack.
1. Chapter 1

Aaaaargh! Aaaaaargh! I HATE nested plot bunnies! I've got two on the go, but this little bastard jumped out of the dog food hopper and sank its teeth into my hand.

I'm pretty sure I know whose fault it is...

Denizens of the Jimiverse, as well as our Visitors, Lurkers and Droppers-In, will all be aware that the Jimiverse is well and truly AU; Bobby is alive and well, Singer Salvage was rebuilt, and Crowley, poor lonely Crowley, just wants a friend. This is partly because I haven't really watched the show since Season 5 (although it's impossible not to remain appraised of story arcs), and partly because I just don't do not-happy endings. Everybody has to be alive and happy at the end of the story (or, in Crowley's case, undead and no more miserable than is absolutely necessary for narrative continuity and hilarity). The Jimiverse has very little angst, and much more amusement than canon. Also more dogs. And better werewolves. And actual nudity. These are just a few of the reasons why I will never be employed on the writing team.

However, whenever there's some pivotal event in SPN canon, amongst the Denizens there is often an expression of interest as to what would theoretically happen if that event had taken place in the Jimiverse. And apparently, the last scene of the Season 9 finale (yikes!) is one of those moments, because somebody sent this little plot bunny. It jumped out of the dog food hopper.

So, if Season 10 was to kick off in the Jimiverse, with a good dose of crack, how would it unfold...?

**Disclaimer: **They're not mine. If they were, I'd have sent Dean to a self-esteem workshop, and Sam to the barber, by now.

**Title:** The Streaker's Defence, Or, A DEMONstrably Bad Idea

**Rating:** T. Because becoming a demon is unlikely to have improved Dean's language any.

**Summary:** The Streaker's Defence: It seemed like a good idea at the time. And it had; what he'd been hoping for was a fellow wolf to go for a bit of a prowl, not Ozzy bloody Osbourne with a muscle car, and no appreciation of Italian architecture. How I think Season 10 should kick off, with an absence of angst and a healthy dose of crack.

**Blame:** Lies entirely with whoever sent the damned plot bunny. I have my suspicions.

* * *

**The Streaker's Defence, Or, a DEMONstrably Bad Idea**

**Chapter ONE**

It was quiet. Too quiet. The sort of quiet that happened when a puppy went quiet: the absence of mayhem was just an indicator that it was doing something you just knew would finish up with a mess on the carpet.

The problem being, Dean was a demon, and whacking him with a rolled up newspaper just wouldn't help. (He knew that, because in a fit of desperation, a few days earlier, he'd tried it over breakfast. Dean had just laughed, and gone right back to practising his telekenesis on the toupée of the man sitting two tables away, whilst lifting piece of bacon from the plate of an extremely fat woman and transporting them to a stray dog in the street outside.)

With a small sigh, he made himself ignore the too-quiet quiet, and turned his attention back to the ancient tome he'd been combing for some way fix what had happened to Dean.

Not easy to do, when it was so quiet...

A sudden burst of raucous guitar music made him jump in his seat, and stifle a little scream. With an inward groan of despair, he left his book, and went looking for the noise.

Dean sat on a stool, holding a guitar. He played another arpeggio, turned it into a power chord, then looked up with a sunny smile. "Hey!" he chirped, "What do ya think?"

"That's... great, Dean," he sighed.

"I always wanted to play guitar," Dean positively bubbled with enthusiasm, "But there wasn't ever time or money for it, obviously." He played another chord. "But who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks?"

"Well, I'm... glad you've, er, found something of a, uh, hobby," he said, the strained smile plastered onto his face. "But, don't you think it might be better to, well, you know," he flapped a hand vaguely.

Dean's face became confused, his expression like that of a puppy who's just had a toy taken away and doesn't know why.. "What?" he asked.

"Just, you know," he waved again, "Play the guitar a bit more... unobtrusively."

Dean looked down at the guitar. "Oh. Oh. I get it." He reached down, and unplugged the small amplifier. The next chord he played sounded tinny, but a lot softer. "Hey, I'll get a set of headphones, and I can just jack into it, and be totally quiet!"

"That's a great idea," he nodded encouragingly, as Dean stood, clearly intent on heading to the nearest hi-fi store to grab a set of headphones.

"Hey, can we go have lunch at that place we went to yesterday?" asked Dean, with an engaging smile. "The food was totally awesome!"

"Maybe," he frowned sternly, "If you promise me that, in the event of somebody coming in to try to rob the place again, you do NOT suddenly make all their clothes tear off their body."

"I stopped the robbery," Dean said in a small voice.

"Yes, you did," he agreed.

"And it was totally hilarious!"

"Well, for a given value of 'hilarious', possibly," he said reluctantly, "But it would've been better to have done it, how do I put this..."

"More unobtrusively?" suggested Dean.

"Yes! Yes! That's exactly it!" he forced jollity into his tone, and Dean smiled sunnily once more. "So, why don't you head out, and get yourself a pair of headphones. Unobtrusively."

"I'll be right back," bubbled Dean, putting the guitar down.

"Oh, and Dean?"

"Yeah?" that sunny smile turned back onto him.

"While you're out, why don't you take Mr Hetfield's body back? Somebody's bound to notice he's not there. And he will probably want to use it again sometime. When he wakes up and resolves never to eat pizza before bedtime again, because it gave him such nightmares. And you don't want to leave yours lying about, somebody might get suspicious."

"Can I keep the guitar?" The wistfulness in Dean's voice would've melted the heart of Lucifer himself.

"Yeah, sure – no doubt he's got dozens, he won't miss one."

"Okay!" With a small _fwomp_ of inrushing air, Dean disappeared.

He let out a long breath, and with it, another little noise of despair. His eyes turned back to the book he'd been reading, and he squared his shoulders. He was running out of ideas; he'd have to try the summoning, even though he'd rather chew through his own arm than face that smug face again, and wring some answers out of that bastard.

He grabbed the edge of the rug, to move it...

_squelch_

He let out a small yodel of outrage – Dean had acquired an entourage of Hellhounds that followed him around, like a litter of puppies following their biggest, cheekiest, and naughtiest sibling. Spending so much time topside was starting to teach them bad material plane habits, such as a taste for fried food, and that had inevitable gastrointestinal consequences.

With a determined scowl on his face, and Hellhound poo on his shoe, Crowley picked up the chalk, and began to mark the floor.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

_I should cut back on this_, mused Sam, contemplating the glass of liquor he held. Trouble was, the stuff that Dean kept bringing back with him was really good, not the cheap rotgut that they could usually afford, but really classy single malts. Smooth and delicious. And decidedly deadly.

Getting hammered didn't lift the despair over what his brother had become, but it did make it a bit fuzzier around the edges for a while.

He opened another book, and began to read. It was in German, which he didn't read well, but strangely enough, being on the way to three sheets to the wind made it less of a slog. But he was prepared to read it. Hell, he was prepared to eat it if it would help him find a way to dedemonize Dean.

He reached for his sandwich – _less drinking and more proper food,_ he told himself sternly – and turned a page. Was this what it had been like for Dean, when his little brother had been wandering around soulless?

Well, it wasn't exactly the same thing, he reminded himself. Dean wasn't wandering around soulless. He wasn't without feelings. Demons weren't; they retained a lot of their human characteristics, and feelings, and lost others. Demons were self-interested, hedonistic creatures, with high opinions of their own self-worth. They definitely had what could only be called a twisted sense of fun, and they had no qualms about following their own whims for their own amusement. And they enjoyed nothing better than fighting with other demons.

He drew in a sharp breath as he felt momentarily dizzy. _ That's it,_ he told himself, putting down the glass, _No more of this until Iiiiieeeeeeee..._

There was a sudden sense of _sideways_...

* * *

Le sigh. Plot bunnies - the are as persistent as herpes. This one might even be named Fergus. Feed him reviews, and let's see where this goes.


	2. Chapter 2

Fergus is a noisy little plot bunny, he's drowning out Ulfric and Imogen-Bubba...

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Sam found himself standing in the middle of a strange design on a wooden floor, looking down at Crowley, who broke into a little jig.

"It worked! It worked!" chirped the King of Hell.

"Crowley!" Sam snarled, "What the fuck?"

"It worked! It worked! Hello, Sam," Crowley smiled broadly (and just a little desperately), "How are you, mate? Long time no attempt to kill me, ha ha..."

Sam glared at him incredulously. "How am I?" he echoed. "How am I? Oh, I'm just fine, runnin' myself into the frigging ground trying to find a way to undemonify my brother, since some short balding asshole decided to go all Butch and Sundance with him..." he paused, and looked around. "Where the fuck is this?"

"We're in Italy," Crowley told him.

"What the... why the hell are you in Italy?" demanded Sam. "Come to think of it, why am_ I _in Italy?"

"I summoned you," Crowley replied, looking pleased with himself, "I wasn't sure it would work, but desperate situations, and all that."

"Huh?" Sam looked bemused. "How did you summon me?"

Crowley pointed to the accoutrements he'd used. "There. A plaid shirt, a tofu burger, and a rather fetching if somewhat long and scruffy wig. An honest-to-Clarence moose trap!"

With a pointed scowl, Sam stepped deliberately out of the design on the floor. "Of course, the actual 'trap' bit might need a bit of work," said Crowley sheepishly.

"Well, you can just send me right back," Winchester the younger growled.

"No! No!" yelped Crowley, "I need your help! Sam, I need your help!"

Sam cocked an eyebrow. "Do you," he said flatly.

"Yes!" Crowley nodded vigorously, "Yes, I need your help, with your brother."

"Do you," repeated Sam.

Crowley turned his most pleading look on Sam, who just huffed, and said, "Bitch, please, you're not Dean. You don't look like you're pleading. You look like you're constipated."

"Sam, I am genuinely begging you for help, here, chum," admitted Crowley.

Sam's smirk was predatory. "You know, I can't help but think we've been here before," he smiled like an amused shark. "One of us desperate for help, and the other one not the least bit interested..."

"All right, all right, mea maxima culpa," Crowley raised his hands in a gesture of supplication, "But now we're in the same boat, on the same page, singing from the same hymn sheet, yes? We both want to help Dean turn back into himself."

With an inward groan, Sam knew he was right.

"So, what have you found?" asked Crowley eagerly.

"Nothing yet," sighed Sam, running a hand through his hair distractedly. "The thing is, Dean hasn't been, uh, demonified the way that demons are usually demonified: damned through your own conduct, by sinning or makin' a deal, then sent to Hell until a human soul becomes twisted, warped, perverted into one of regular you black-eyed assholes."

"You can't talk about your big brother like that!" sniffed Crowley disdainfully.

"I said, regular black-eyed assholes," Sam growled. "Regular, vicious, evil bastards who take delight in causing mayhem and hurting people. Dean's... different."

"Tell me about it," Crowley drooped sadly.

"So, your brand new BFF turned out to be a bit much, huh?" smirked Sam. "Not so much Thelma to your Louise, more like Oscar to your Felix?"

Crowley drooped all over. "You have no idea," he groaned. "I was hoping for a fellow wolf to go have a prowl, howl at the moon. I wasn't expecting Ozzy bloody Osbourne!"

"Actually, having grown up with him, I think I do," Sam replied breezily. "Are you familiar with the concept of cosmic comeuppance?" He looked around the room. It appeared to be a room in an upmarket hotel or _pension_. "A twin? Seriously?"

"He likes to sleep," Crowley shrugged. "Even though he doesn't have to. He snores," he added resentfully. "And he doesn't have to eat, but he likes to do that. Often. He chews with his mouth open."

"Feel my pain," Sam chuckled meanly. "So, what, you came to Italy to play guitar?"

"Well, after he dragged me to some of the most awful concerts of what was allegedly music, I thought that a change of scenery would be good for him, broaden his horizons," explained Crowley. "Apparently, sneaking into concerts is one of his favourite activities. If I never hear another band name that starts with M, it'll be too soon..."

"Did he, uh, borrow the guitar, then?" asked Sam.

"No. He borrowed the guitar's owner. He stole the actual guitar."

"So, why Rome?" Sam pressed. "What is this, take your new demon pal on the Grand Tour?"

"I thought that some culture might be edifying," Crowley answered, "This is Rome, one of the most cultured cities in the world! The history, the architecture, the museums, the galleries, the sophisticated women..."

"What did he do?" Sam cocked an eyebrow.

"He locked me out while he screwed a waitress, then stole a Ferrari. Only he didn't _tell_ me he'd stolen it, not before we had a good number of the Polizia chasing us and he'd frightened me to death with his driving."

Sam gave Crowley a look up and down. "You still look, uh, undead to me."

"At least that had four wheels," muttered Crowley, "I thought Germany would be a good introduction. You'll like the beer, I said. You'll like the buxom women, I said. You'll like the fried food, I said."

"And did he?"

"Oh, yes, a lot. And after having partaken generously of all three, he stole a BMW, and we hit the Black Forest road. I think I might've left my fingerprints in his ribs. I certainly left my arse print on the pillion seat and the sounds of my screams are probably still echoing around inside that helmet. Plus, I had to get my leathers dry-cleaned afterwards. Only first, I had to wait around while he had sex in the back of aLandespolizeicar with the female officer who eventually managed to pull him over." He looked like a kicked puppy. "We have to do something, Sam. Before he funs me to death."

"I'd be happy to wait until he's done that," remarked Sam casually. Crowley let out a mournful noise. "Yeah, yeah. all right, so, I've been doing some research, but I haven't turned up anything useful." He squared his shoulders with a resolute expression. "I think our best bet is to go 'fess up, and ask for help."

Crowley let out a little shriek. "No! No! We can't do that!" he yelped. "He'll call me idjit! He'll call me asshat! He'll drench me in holy water! He'll shoot me with his Anti-Demon Rounds full of salt and sanctified dog poo! He'll let his dogs bail me up! He'll let those gargoyles strafe me!"

"Of course he will!" Sam snapped angrily, "Because this is all your fault, you scheming, evil piece of shit! Turning my brother into a demon, you'll be lucky if he doesn't turn you into a little puddle of sulphuric goo!"

"Noooooo!" wailed Crowley, "I fear for my haberdashery!"

Sam shrugged. "Well, okay, just send me back, and I'll leave you and Dean to get on with your bromance, and I'll wait until he comes home again. He will eventually, when he's got enough Chicks I Have Banged stories that he wants to tell me."

There was the slam of a door, and a voice yelling, "Hey, Crowley! I'm back! I got the cans, so I can cut some really awesome riffs but be quiet, and... Sammy!" The moment he laid eyes on his little brother, Dean was across the room and hugging him. "Hey, bro, it's great to see you!" His smile was beaming, but faded a little. "Hey, have you been eatin' enough? You're lookin' a bit tired."

"I'm, uh, fine, Dean," Sam assured him.

"What are you doin' here?" Dean asked as his sunny smile reasserted itself. "I was just gonna do some guitar practice, you know, pick up some new riffs."

"Uh, Crowley... contacted me," Sam said, waggling his eyebrows at the cringing demon, "He thought it might be nice for us to, you know, catch up."

"Yeah, he's turnin' out to be kind of okay," Dean grinned, giving Crowley a playful punch in the arm. Crowley let out a yip, and rubbed his arm. "Whoever thought he'd be such fun? Hey, you wanna go get something to eat? Crowley found this place yesterday, the pasta is awesome, and they do really big serving sizes. Which reminds me," he reached into his pocket, "You know that guy from breakfast a few days ago? I saw him again."

He withdrew his hand from his pocket, and plonked a toupée onto Crowley's head.

"That's... very thoughtful of you, Dean," trilled Crowley through gritted teeth as Sam laughed out loud, "But for now, why don't we go and get lunch?"

"Awesome!" Dean smiled. "Three-way man-date, that sounds totally demonic!"

"Definitely, definitely," nodded Crowley, with the desperate smile of a man who'd rather crawl into a hole and pull the dirt in on top of himself, "But just before we do, would you humour me?"

"Sure," Dean smiled.

"Wonderful, wonderful. Well, you know how we've talked about not drawing attention to ourselves, you know, keeping our demony little secrets from the population at large? Can't have them realising that we're swanning about enjoying ourselves Topside, ha ha ha."

"Oh, yeah," Dean nodded seriously, "Stay under the radar, so nobody notices."

"That's exactly it, gold star for you. So, why don't you just pop out, and put Mr Mustaine's body back where you found it, there's a good lad."

* * *

Whoever would've guessed that Crowley whumping would be such fun? No doubt the Man of Knowledge will help them figure something out. Maybe the King of Hell might even have to do some trials to cure Dean of demonage. I wonder what that would entail?...

Feed Fergus, because Reviews are the Delicious Italian Meals On The Table Of Life!


	3. Chapter 3

Aaaargh! Aaaaaaargh! The plot bunny has its teeth in my leg! Aaaaaaargh!

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Sam was right about one thing; once they were back in the US of A, Dean couldn't wait to start with the Chicks I Have Banged stories. And once they were in his Baby, on the way to Bobby's, he had a captive audience.

"We don't have to travel by old-fashioned internal combustion, you know," Crowley said hopefully from his position wedged into the corner of the back seat, trying to stay as far as possible from Jimi, "We can go by infernal combustion…"

"But that's no fun," Dean pouted, "And just zapping her around, well, it wouldn't be good for my Baby. An engine has to run – she needs exercise."

"It's actually quite cramped back here," Crowley protested, eyeing Jimi, who eyed him back, and growled. "He's taking up more than half the seat."

"Well, he thinks of it as his 'den'," Dean shrugged, "So I guess he figures he can take up as much space as he likes."

"He keeps growling at me," Crowley whined. "And he did wee in my shoes again last night." He shot a sudden horrified glance at Dean. "At least, I assumed it was Jimi…"

"That's because you're a demon, and he's a Hunter's dog," replied Dean. "It's just because he wants to kill you, no biggie."

"But you're a demon too!" protested His Infernal Majesty, "Why doesn't he want to kill you?"

"Because," Dean beamed, "I'm awesome, I'm his Alpha, I'm the guy who throws the Frisbee and feeds him wings." At the mention of the w-word, Jimi's ears pricked, and he began to bark. "You hungry, J-Man? Hey, Sam, watch for a drive-through, let's get food!"

"I don't suppose that we could stop somewhere that has proper cutlery?" Crowley didn't sound too hopeful.

"You could always go on ahead," suggested Sam brightly. "We promise to shovel you up after Bobby turns you into a smoking pile of slime." Crowley let out a small stifled squeak of horror at the very thought.

"Hey, I like to drive, so I'll drive," stated Dean, "Now, where was I? Oh, yeah the German cop. Her name was Angela," he bubbled, shoving another handful of Doritos into his mouth with his right hand, "Only not pronounced like we'd say it, but 'an-ge-le', 'cause she was German, and wow, I've been with some women in uniform before, and it's really hot when they take charge, so I just said, 'Yes ma'am', and..."

"Make him stop," moaned Crowley from the back seat, "For the love of Craig, make him stop." He gestured, and a bottle and a glass appeared in his hands.

"Welcome to my world," Sam glared at him, turning to snatch the bottle. "You wanted to steal my brother? Suck it up, buttercup."

"Guys," interrupted Dean, "Don't be like that, come on, this is a road trip! We're supposed to be havin' fun! Oh, hey, booze!" He grabbed the bottle from Sam, undid it with his teeth, and took a deep drink. "Oh, that's good stuff. We should go visit the distillery sometime, that'd be really cool!"

"Dean, it's in Scotland, in Morayshire," said Sam between clenched teeth.

"Well, yeah," Dean conceded, "But we could go visit. Scotland. Where they wear kilts. Hey, Crowley," Dean waggled his eyebrows, "Do the women go 'regimental' too?"

Crowley let out a sad little noise.

"Let's have some music!" chirped Dean, sliding a tape into the deck.

"Look at it this way," Sam said with all the composure of a Zen monk to Crowley's horrified face, "While he's singing along, he can't tell you about his sexcapades."

"Hey, I've got a great idea!" Dean smiled hugely, "Why don't I just pull over, and I'll go and borrow his body, and I can really do this properly?"

"No, no, you're doin' an awesome job all by yourself, bro," Sam assured him. "Just leave Mr Bon Jovi alone." Then, for the express purpose of rubbing salt into the wound, he began to sing along with Dean, taking a schadenfreudeful delight in watching Crowley's agonised grimace in the mirror, and, if he was honest, just enjoying seeing his brother so apparently carefree, even if he was technically not completely human.

A small comet of white smoke whizzed in through the window, and circled Dean's head a couple of times. "Hey, Gedda!" he greeted the little Hellpoodle, as she headed for the back seat, materialised, and plonked down in Crowley's lap.

"Hello, my darling," he crooned to the little dog, who climbed up his shirt to kiss him lavishly, "I'm so glad you're here. Protect me from your oik of a father, he wants to eat me."

Gedda turned around to sniff noses with Jimi Junior, then settled herself comfortably between his front paws for a snooze.

Crowley sighed. "Et tu, Gedda."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

A fairly awkward conversation took place on the porch at Singer Salvage, as Sam explained why Bobby would have to use the charm to let Dean into the house the way he did for Crowley. There was murder in the old man's eyes as he glared at Crowley.

"You've really done it this time, asshole," he growled, "Turnin' one o' my boys into a black-eyed bastard, I will see you nailed for this…"

"It wasn't me!" Crowley yelped, clinging to Gedda, "It wasn't me! He was the one who wanted to use the First Blade! It wasn't my fault! Why do you always think that when something like this happens, it must be my fault?"

"Because you are an evil, schemin', immoral, vicious self-interested asshat who'd cheerfully screw over anybody for anything if it suits your ends," replied Bobby promptly, "And it usually is."

"Well, it isn't," Crowley griped petulantly. "It was his decision, his choice." Bobby continued to glare at him. "Well, I may have had suspicions, possibly even entertained small hopes, but it wasn't my fault."

"It's really cool," grinned Dean, holding out his hand and willing the Blade to manifest, then passing it to Bobby. "Just like Sampson, I slew Abaddon with the assbone of a Jew…"

"Jawbone of an ass," corrected Sam through clenched teeth, the tone of his voice indicating that this joke had already been done at least a dozen times.

Bobby turned the weapon over, examining it. "Interesting. Could this kill him?" he waved it at Crowley, who let out a small shriek.

"Sure," shrugged Dean, "But I'd have to do it. It doesn't work without the Mark. But you could watch. Maybe kick him once he was down." He smiled at his brother. "You too, Sam."

"Now just a minute!" yipped Crowley, "You can't kill me!"

"Pretty sure I could," Dean commented easily.

"But, but… I'm the reason you're not dead!" Crowley protested. "I'm the reason you didn't end up on a pyre, or Mr AP there didn't end up over his head in some deal or spell trying to bring you back!"

"Yeah, but you're a demon," Dean pointed out, "And I'm a Hunter, and now I got a real good weapon for killin' em. I'm not judgin', I'm just sayin'." He gave Crowley a critical look. "You are kind of an asshole, though," he conceded thoughtfully.

"God's gyratin' tits and Satan's triple-ply toilet tissue," sighed Bobby, taking off his hat and scratching his head, "Look, I think for the moment, it would be prudent for nobody in this room to try to kill anybody else. However attractive the idea might be," he gave Crowley another withering glare.

"Listen to the Man of Knowledge," tweeted Crowley brightly.

"Shut up, you. So," he turned to Sam, "You'd better tell me how this happened, from the beginnin'."

"Hey, you know what we need?" Dean grinned hugely. "Booze! And I know just the place to get it from!"

"Dean!" Sam yelped, "Just wait, don't…"

Dean disappeared.

"Balls," muttered Bobby.

"He's just gone to get booze," sighed Sam. "He's still Dean, just even sneakier now. He's developed a bit of a taste for really good stuff."

"Well, it's nice to know that I've taught him something," said Crowley brightly, "Now, Bobby, if we could just do something about educating your palate, darling."

"It's okay, he won't get caught," Sam assured the old Hunter, "Although he might get…"

His cell chirped, and he scrabbled to answer it.

"Yeah… Dean! What the… yeah, I know, I've told you already, you should wait until… uh-huh… what_? Where_?... You… _climbed_ it? Jesus H. Christ, why the fuck would you… well get down, right now!...Serves you right… uh-huh… uh-huh… yeah… oh, God, okay, just hang tight, bro." He gave the others a pained look. "He just headed for Bardstown. To get some bourbon."

"Idjit," muttered Bobby, "There's a 'but', aint there? I can just tell, there's a 'but'."

"Uh, yeah," Sam nodded. "Well, it's in Nelson County, Kentucky."

"And?" prompted Bobby.

"Well, he doesn't exactly have a real good handle on the whole, uh, diabolical satnav thing just yet," Sam admitted, "He says he's standing next to Nelson's Column."

Crowley let out a long-suffering groan. "I'll go get him."

"Great. But he said not to rush; he's met a hot chick with a really cute accent."

"Did he say how long he'd like?" Bobby asked sourly.

"Not exactly," Sam replied, "But he said he, uh, wanted to give her time to finish arresting him properly." He looked pained. "You know he's got a thing about women in uniform. And if there's handcuffs involved…"

Bobby looked down into his coffee. "I need something stronger."

* * *

That noise you heard? It was all the Deangirls going 'Ska-weeeeeee!' at the mention of Dean and handcuffs in adjacent sentences. It's the whole Ackles In Shackles thing; just like the Mark, it never completely let go.

Send reviews to get this little bunny to let go of my leg, because Reviews are the Inappropriate Anecdotes Told With Great Zest During The Road Trip Of Life!*

*Yes, yes, all right, if you must, you may have an Inappropriate Anecdote about a Winchester Of Your Choice. I'll stick with the one about the Volvo driver who thought I was a lesbian intent on corrupting her about-15-year-old daughter. Or the one about the ex-boyfriend you liked to measure his, ahem, yes, well, every couple of weeks, that always goes down a treat.


	4. Chapter 4

In the Jimiverse, Sam still has his tattoo. Maybe Cas put it back afterwards. Dean will not be possessing his little brother. That would be just too weird. And poor Sam would have to spend a week in bed recovering from stuffing his face with double cheese baconburgers for a week. And possibly a case of Doingo Syndrome (which is a problem that Dean once told somebody that Jimi was suffering from, after he broke into an animal shelter and, er, entertained all the lady dogs in the place.)

...

You cannot possibly want Dean to possess his brother, can you? I mean, yes, you're Denizens, and you are depraved, but, you don't really want that...

Do you?...

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Bobby headed for the living room, poured a double for himself and one for Sam, pointedly didn't offer Crowley a drink, and dropped heavily into a chair.

"Okay, then," he said, "Take it from the top."

Sam did just that, with Crowley interjecting from time to time, and Bobby intervening when the two ended up squabbling, until the whole tale was told.

"You know, I wondered what the hell was goin' on," Bobby mused, "When that story about financial mischief in the office of the Kansas Secretary of State broke. It was a total change of character – not only did we suddenly get a full disclosure of the bribe taking on camera, we got a tearful admission of marital infidelity."

"He was just figurin' out the possession thing," Sam nodded, "Scared the shit out of me. I thought he was dead again, for real, just this body lying there on his bed, I was about to call you when he sat up and smiled. Fuck, it knocked five years off my life."

"I have been trying to discourage him," Crowley added.

"Well, you've failed spectacularly," noted Sam trenchantly. "I've been makin' him use a sign when he does it, but I swear, he waits until I'm close to sit up and scare me."

"Just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?" Bobby grunted at Crowley, who flinched. "At the risk of channelling Dr Phil, what were you thinkin'?"

"Look, it seemed like a good idea at the time, all right?" Crowley yapped.

"The Streaker's Defence," Bobby noted judiciously, "Of course. 'It seemed like a good idea at the time, Your Honour'. Not washin' with me either."

"Look, I didn't actually do anything!" Crowley protested. "Much. Hardly at all. Just a bit. Sort of. Well, I might just have given the inevitable a wee little shove along, so we didn't all have to stand around and wait for the other boot to drop…"

"You called him back!" Sam snapped, "You put the First Blade in his hand, and called him back!"

"You should be grateful!" Crowley rallied magnificently. "The Mark doesn't completely let go. What would have happened if you'd built him a pyre, hmmmmmm? Cremated the body of the Living Sex God before he was hauled back? So he'd have had to go out and find another host? How pissed off would he have been about that? We'd never have heard the end of it! And how awkward would it have been to come up with a plausible explanation as to why your big brother suddenly looked suspiciously like the vocalist from Metallica? Because if you want to get around in the company of a guy with a beard and no moustache, that's your look-out, but I see facial topiary like that, I think Amish or some sort of pervert, and I don't know how many barns you raise around here weekly, but…"

"If we can just keep to the pertinent subject matter here, children," Bobby growled, "The issue is, Dean's now a demon. Or at least, he's been demonified."

"That is how one becomes a demon," Crowley nodded, "Don't waste your breath stating the obvious, darling, it's beneath you."

"I aint just statin' the obvious, asshat," Bobby snapped, "I'm readin' the fine print. You of all people should understand that. What I'm gettin' at is, yeah, technically, Dean's been demonified…"

"Technically?" echoed Crowley. "Technically? Look, being a demon isn't something you do on time share, or working from home. It's not like working a sex chat line. It's not like holding down a nine-to-five job. You don't kiss the wife and pat the dog goodbye in the morning, then catch the bus to Perdition, put on your horns and black eyes and clock on, spend a hard day slaving over a simmering lava pit or flaying the decaying skin from the backs of the damned, then hang up your pitchfork at the end of the day, then go home, kiss-kiss, hello dear, how was your day, oh, you wouldn't believe it, one of those rapists tried to get out again, I had to dent my pitchfork over his head, oh, look, you have lava splashed on your pants again, go and get changed and I'll put them in to soak, did you get a chance to ask Earl from the Pit of Perverted Predators over to dinner, yes, Beverly says not to worry about dessert, she'll do a cheesecake, that's wonderful, oh, could you have a look at Fluffy's backside, he's been scooting on the lawn again. Either you are, or aren't. You're a demon, or you're not. You can't be a little bit demon. Like you can't be a little bit pregnant."

"Some combinations of the oral contraceptive pill work by suppressing ovulation, by simulating aspects of the early stages of pregnancy," offered Sam, "So, you can, in fact, be pharmacologically a little bit pregnant."

Crowley eyed Sam warily. "You know," he said carefully, "The way his brain works, sometimes, I shudder to think what would actually have happened if he'd laid claim to the Red Throne. I suspect that some of the Hierarchy would have ended up hammering on the door of the Cage, begging for asylum." He paused. "I would probably have been the one trying to knock the hinges out in order to get in."

"What I'm tryin' to say," Bobby growled, rolling his eyes, "Is that Dean has been demonified, but, well, does his behaviour strike you as particularly demonic?"

"He keeps borrowing bodies," Sam pointed out in a disapproving voice, "And scaring the shit out of me. His eyes go black – he does it on purpose to annoy me."

"Those are physical properties of demons," Bobby waved a hand dismissively, "I'm talkin' about his behaviour. He can take a host, he can transport himself – okay, maybe not navigate so well – but now he can, what does he do?"

Sam looked nonplussed. "Well, he steals booze," he pointed out.

"He's been doin' that since he was sixteen," Bobby humphed.

"He steals really really good booze," Sam amended.

"What else?" prompted Bobby.

"He goes out prowling for sex," Sam went on. "Then comes back and wants to tell me all about it," he added resentfully.

"He's been doin' that since he was fifteen," Bobby chortled. "Anythin' else?"

"Oh, where do I start?" humphed Crowley. "He steals vehicles, and uses them to attempt to terrify me to death! He drinks like a fish! Getting into fights is his idea of a good time! He eats like a pig! He lives like a pig! He sings, mother of Mammon, he sings like a pig! He is a complete oik! The only culture he has is likely to be found growing in his laundry! He actively enjoys making me as uncomfortable as possible!"

"And he's been doin' that since, well, since forever," Bobby chuckled fondly. "So, would either of you regard this as particularly demonic behaviour?"

Sam and Crowley looked at each other.

"Because what I'm thinkin'," the old Hunter went on, "Is that, your average newly minted demon, when it manages to get out of Hell and lands Topside, tends to display certain behaviour patterns. Those patterns usually involve murder and mayhem. Revenge against someone, maybe, or killing, or tormenting someone for the fun of it. Vicious self-indulgence with nothing but its own enjoyment in mind, and hang the consequences."

"He's certainly been tormenting me for the fun of it," Crowley muttered.

"You're a demon," Sam spoke up, frowning in thought. "Demons with an axe to grind go out and try to kill whoever pissed them off. Or whoever happens to be just standing there." He cocked his head thoughtfully. "Dean has a lot of things to hold against you. By rights, he should be going after you with all guns blazing. Because demons hate other demons more than anything. They might occasionally make tentative allies, then double-cross them as soon as they can, but they don't go off to Europe for a cultural education. They don't go to very good pasta restaurants. And they don't go get headphones to play guitar."

"A demon wouldn't have brought you booze, Sam," Bobby opined, "A demon would've stayed around to taunt you, paradin' your brother's body around, showin' you what he'd become. He would've taken pleasure in seein' you get torn up about it, then he'd have beaten you to a pulp for amusement. But he didn't."

"No," Sam agreed. "He kept bringing me booze. And chicken salad. And Tylenol. For after I'd drunk the booze."

"Exactly," Bobby nodded, "That's why I'm thinkin', Dean may have been demonified, but he aint exactly a demon, as we understand the word."

"But… how?" asked Sam.

"We got a precedent," Bobby reminded him, "Cain. He had the Mark, and it happened to him. Only," he grinned, "He left, he walked away from Hell, turned his back on the Knights, for love. Coulda taken over Hell himself, or the planet, come to think of it, but he threw it all away for love. Now, how demonic does that sound?"

He sat back, and contemplated his drink. "Maybe it's because Dean didn't die through the damnable conduct of sinning or making a deal. Maybe it's because he didn't go to Hell to have his soul twisted and broken. Maybe it's because his death was a true self-sacrifice made for the greater good, the idjit. Hell, maybe it's just because o' quantum. But think about what demons become. They are selfish above all else, they look out for number one. They are not troubled by existential angst, or self-esteem problems, or a sense of worthlessness, and they sure as hell don't put everybody else's welfare ahead of their own, to their own detriment…"

"But Dean does," mused Sam. "Or at least, he did."

"But now, our Righteous Man, demonified, aint troubled by any o' that," Bobby reasoned. "He was even willing to leave you to look after yourself for a few days while he headed off with Crowley. How willing would he usually be to take time off for himself, especially if it meant he had to leave off mother-hennin' after you 24/7?"

He let that sink in.

"And he seems… happy," he went on quietly, almost sadly. "He's actually prepared to let himself do things for himself. No wonder he likes to sleep, even if he doesn't have to; because he _can_ sleep, not just lie there in a pathological fug of self-loathing, worry and failure. He's not bein' cheerful just to annoy you, Sam, he's bein' cheerful because he's feelin' cheerful." He looked down to where Jimi was slouched comfortably on the rug for a snooze. "If he was truly evil, Jimi would've torn into him the moment he woke up. Jimi's a Hunter's dog, and he knows his stuff – he's got a nose for evil shit."

He's a Hunter," Sam said, a smile on his face. "That's what he said, when you asked about the First Blade killing Crowley. He's a Hunter, with a real good weapon for killing demons."

The implications of the situation dawned on Crowley.

"This is…" his mouth worked silently. "Bobby, this could be a disaster waiting to happen. If he's not a proper demon, and he still thinks of himself as, you know…"

"A Hunter," supplied Bobby, just a touch maliciously.

"Yes, just so," nodded Crowley. "A Hunter. Dean Winchester. Only with demonic attributes. And the First Blade. And the Hellhounds following him around like kids chasing an ice cream truck. He could…" he swallowed. "Bobby, he could do slaughter Downstairs. He could do slaughter Up Here, too. He could… Bobby, he could commit mass demonicide!"

"Quite possibly," agreed Bobby serenely.

"But… but… this is terrible!" Crowley wrung his hands. "He could absolutely decimate our ranks! He could exterminate my deal-makers, just for starters! He could quite possibly achieve the unthinkable – he could annoy Hell's Hierarchy enough to turn them into a united force!" He looked absolutely stricken. "Bobby, I could be killed! Worse than that, I could be deposed!"

"Gosh, wouldn't that be a shame," smirked Sam.

"Don't get your panties in a bunch just yet, Your Majesty," grumbled Bobby, "I aint completely happy with the idea o' one o' my boys bein' a black-eyed sumbitch, no matter how well-adjusted it seems to have made him. We got no idea of how this will play out. Is he still mortal, will he age and die, or is he like Cain? Right now, he's like a mastiff puppy, perpetually cheerful and doesn't realise that he's knockin' over the furniture – will he turn ornery as he grows up? I don't wanna find out. And, I suspect, neither do you two idjits. So," he poured himself another drink, "I shall contemplate the matter, then do some research." He glanced at his watch. "Maybe you could go fetch the puppy home before he chews up somebody's shoes, Crowley."

With a heavy sigh, the King of Hell stood up, but was forestalled by Sam's phone.

"Yeah. Dean! Where are you? _What?_ Are you… okay, well, just come on in when you're ready. Shut down the compressor if you're not gonna be usin' it." He rang off. "Dean found his way back," he relayed.

"Where is he?" demanded Bobby.

"Outside," Sam replied, just as they heard a loud happy whoop.

Muttering under his breath, Bobby made his way to the kitchen window.

A bright yellow bouncy castle occupied a large area of his drive. Dean Winchester was bouncing up and down on it. He was wearing a London WPC's hat. He looked up, and gave Bobby a brilliant smile and a wave.

"Sam," sighed Bobby, "I'm gonna need some help with the research."

* * *

Hey, this is the Jimiverse - we couldn't have demon!Dean without the bouncy castle!

Send reviews, because Reviews are the Fun Interludes On The Bouncy Castle In The Driveway Of Life!*

*Yes, yes, with the W.O.Y.C. if you must. You depraved beldames. No, I don't know whether Dean brought back the handcuffs with him, you deviated pre-verts.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"So, her name was Elizabeth," as soon as he came in from the bouncy castle, Dean launched enthusiastically into a description of his London encounter, "And she's been in the Met, that's their cops, for six years now, and she's got some serious unarmed tactics moves, so…"

"What the hell, Dean?" interrupted Sam, shooting his brother a searing Bitchface #15™ (There Had Better Be A Good Explanation For This, Dean), "What the hell possessed you to climb Nelson's Column?"

"It was… me!" Dean gave him a brilliant smile. "Ha ha! Get it? What 'possessed' me? Me!"

"Don't give up your day job, Chuckles," growled Bobby, "I think what Sam is getting' at is, why would you decide that you wanted to climb Nelson's Column?"

Dean's face became resolute. "Because it's there," he intoned heroically.

"That was a mountain Mallory was talking about," Sam huffed, "Not a public monument. And he died."

"Uh, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time?" Dean offered hopefully.

"It didn't work for him, it aint gonna work for you," Bobby informed him.

"Oh, come on, guys," Dean wheedled, "It's not like I'm gonna hurt myself, I was perfectly safe the whole time!"

"Dean, just because you can doesn't mean you should!" yapped Sam in exasperation.

"You never want me to have fun!" Dean's epic pout would've done a sulky six-year-old proud. He plonked himself down in a chair, and glared at Bobby and Sam. "You're the Fun Police, you know that?" Jimi butted his big earnest head against Dean, who patted him. "At least Jimi loves me," he humphed.

Sam ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "Look, Dean, it's not that I don't want you to have fun," he began, "I'm all for you having fun, in fact, sometimes I wish you'd unwind and let yourself have more fun..."

Dean gave him a beautiful beaming smile of affection.

"…But right now, I'm just worried about you, because, you know," he waved a hand vaguely, "You're not, uh, you're not… yourself."

Dean looked confused. "Of course I'm myself," he replied, "Who else would I be?"

"Well, for a start, your id has taken over the asylum," Sam said, "your superego has gone into hibernation, and your ego is not bothering to draw the curtains before you take off your pants, so to speak…"

Dean cocked his head. "I understood the bit about taking off my pants," he said eventually.

"I think what Dr Freud here is tryin' to get at," Bobby interjected, "Is that, right now, you're walkin' around, well, not to put too fine a point on it, demonified. Your socialised, ethical, moral compass aint pointin' North; but it aint pointin' Down South, either. If anything, it's pointin' due Dean."

Dean looked crestfallen. "Do you think I'm… I'm some kind of monster?" he quavered, his eyes brimming.

"No! No!" Sam hurried to reassure him, "Absolutely not! Look at Jimi," he went on, indicating the dog, who was panting happily while Dean scratched his ears, 'You know he's got a nose for evil shit. If you were really evil shit, he wouldn't be standing there being a total slut for attention as usual, he'd be tryin' to tear you right out of your, uh," he paused, "Does it even technically count as a meatsuit if you're inhabiting your own body?"

"The answer to that," sighed Bobby, "Is, I suspect, somewhere between 'yes' and 'no'."

"Very definitive," griped Crowley, "That's what I like about you, darling, there's no equivocation on your part…"

"Shut up, you," Bobby grumped, turning back to Dean. "Son, we don't really know what you are. There aint really a precedent for it. That alone is reason enough to try to undo it."

"But…" Dean looked down at his hands. "I can do all sorts of cool stuff," he finished plaintively.

"So could I, hopped up on demon blood," Sam reminded him, "And look how _that_ panned out."

"Ah, the zealotry of the reformed," sighed Crowley, "It's always the ex-alcoholics who are the most vocally tee-total, don't you find?"

"Not helping, Crowley," Sam ground out between clenched teeth.

Bobby glared at Crowley. "O' course, if you're not on board with this, Your Majesty," he began judiciously, "Maybe you could take Dean Downstairs, introduce him around, turn him loose to win friends and influence people…"

"Yes, yes, you make your point," Crowley sighed dramatically, "Pray continue."

"So," Bobby returned to the topic at hand, "I think that it would really be for the best, Dean, if we could find a way to undemonify you, have you revert to completely human."

Dean turned heartrendingly soulful eyes on him. "Can I… can I keep the bouncy castle?"

Sam couldn't help the smile that broke out on his face. "Sure, bro, bouncy castles are cool."

A small smile made its way onto Dean's face. "And, can I keep the police lady's hat?" he asked.

"Well, a trip back to London to return it probably aint practical," chuckled Bobby, "So yeah. On you, it looks good."

"Awesome!" Grinning broadly, he reached for his back pocket. "Hey what about these handcuffs, can I keep these too?"

"I'll just leave you and the Special Needs child to it, shall I?" said Crowley brightly.

"Like hell," snapped Bobby, "You had a hand in gettin' him into this mess, you are gonna help with gettin' him out."

"But I have no talent for this sort of thing, love," protested Crowley, "You're the Man of Knowledge, and you've got Poindexter here, I don't see how I could possibly be of any assistance…" he broke off, and listened to a noise that had been progressively getting louder as they spoke.

"What the hell is that?" asked Sam.

"Sounds like a stampede," suggested Bobby, "But there aint been a cattle drive through these parts in nearly a hundred years… Crowley?" He saw the resigned look on the King of Hell's face.

"All I can say," His Infernal Majesty groaned, "Is, I hope you have a bottle of carpet spot cleaner."

The noise that sounded like a herd of wildebeest galumphing in their general direction hit the house, and the living room was suddenly filled with what could only be described as disembodied presences.

"Oh, hey, guys!" Dean called happily, "How you doin?"

"Dean!" yelped Sam, swiping at the insubstantial yet tangible entities that swirled and buffeted around him, "Dean, what the fuck is going on?"

"Oh, sorry," Dean grinned, clearing his throat. "Hey, guys, make yourselves presentable. Go on, I know you can do it if you want to."

There was a blurring of reality around the edges as the laws of physical matter wobbled…

Then the living room was filled with dogs.

There were big dogs, there were bigger dogs, and there were even bigger dogs. Their breeding was indeterminate – they had rough coats, large feet, grizzled and scarred faces featuring large snaggled fangs, and eyes that glowed faintly red, but their tails waved, and the ruckus was of happy greeting barks.

"God's tits!" yelled Bobby, as Jimi leaped to his feet and began to exchange excited butt-sniffs and growl-wrestles with the sudden influx of monster dogs. "What in the name of Crufts is this?"

"It's the Infernal Pack!" wailed Crowley, as a dog trod on him in an effort to get to Dean, who had gone down, laughing, in a pack of kissing tongues and waving tails. "Or some them, anyway. They've been following him around!"

"They're awesome!" Dean's voice announced from somewhere around floor level.

"They're slobbery!" complained Sam, as one creature that came up to his waist shoved its nose eagerly into his crotch, then jumped to put its paws on his shoulders and kiss him. "Ow! Aaaaaaaargh!"

"Stop that! Stop that!" shrieked Crowley, batting at another dog, as it nosed at him curiously, "Oh, you disgusting object, this is a cashmere-silk blend! The marks will never come out! Not the tie! _Not the tie_!"

"Balls," muttered Bobby, as a large foot trod on his boot, the claws leaving marks in the leather, "Dean, call the mutts to heel. Dean? Dean!" He grabbed at a lamp as a large wagging tail whacked it off the table, then raised his voice. "Enough! _SIT!"_

Two dozen Hellhound rumps hit the floor. One looked up guiltily from where it had slunk behind the sofa.

"Bobby, you must give me that spell," spluttered Crowley, making a futile attempt to dab the slobber from his suitings. His handkerchief began to dissolve.

"I've had dogs all my life," Bobby growled, "And if the Almighty had intended dogs – ANY dogs – to run riot indoors, He'd have made lamps shatterproof and dog crap Teflon," he announced sternly. "Either you learn to control yourselves indoors, or you all go outside. Including you," he bent a stern eye on Dean, then glared at the one who'd been lurking behind the sofa. "And if I find you've left an infernal deposit behind the furniture, I don't care if you're Lucifer's lap-dog, I will rub your nose in it."

"I'll, uh, get some rags and, uh, clean up," Dean scrambled to his feet. "It's not his fault, they ate quite a lot of tiramisu, I think for a couple of 'em the dairy didn't really agree with 'em…"

"Is there any point in asking why a contingent of Hellhounds is following you around?" asked Sam, pushing the nosy one's snout away from his groin.

"Probably not," grumbled Bobby, watching one of the Hellhounds sniff at the leg of the table. As it was about to cock its leg, he snatched a spray bottle from a bookcase, and gave it a squirt on the nose. It stopped, went 'snrf', and shook its head.

Dean's expression clouded. "Hey, don't scare him!"

Bobby turned, and gave Dean a squirt. "Don't you tell me how to manage dogs in my own house, boy," he growled, as Dean let out a yelp and fell backwards onto the sofa.

"Well, he eats like one, he snores like one, I suppose you might as well as train him like one," chortled Crowley, "You were quite possibly a dog in a previous life, Dean, in which case, one wonders, in order to be reincarnated as you, what sort of doggy sins must you have perpetra… OW!" The squirt of water hit him between the eyes. "Bobby!" he shrieked, "Bobby, how could you?"

"What did you put in that?" asked Sam curiously. "Lavender oil?"

"Holy water," Bobby grunted. "Never know when you might need it. Plus, it keeps the pot plants lookin' happy in winter, when they don't need so much waterin'."

Sam grinned. "Hey, I didn't think of that," he laughed. "All I gotta do is put a bit in my shower gel, and he can't use it. Or put some in the wash, and he can't steal my socks. Or, hey, if I sprinkle my bed, he can't short-sheet it!" A whole new avenue of pranking opened up before him. "Or, if I sprinkle his bed, or spike his booze…"

Bobby waved his spray bottle threateningly.

"It won't work on me," Sam grinned smugly, "Because I'm not a de-aaaaaaaaargh!"

"Just to neutralise any stray Hellhound slobber," Bobby beamed angelically as Sam wiped his astonished and dripping face. "Now, we will retire to the study, to make a start on figurin' out how to undo this little clusterfuck, while His Majesty and the new kid on the block will prevent these idjits from destroyin' my house, and we will make like a happy team to get this done."

"Well, as I was saying," Crowley replied, "I doubt I'm of any use to you here, so why don't I –"

_squirt_

"Just, sit down here, and, and, and, oh bugger," Crowley sank dejectedly onto the sofa, dabbing at his face and tie with the remains of his handkerchief. A large grizzled head dropped sympathetically into his lap, and he patted it dispairingly.

"Hey, let's see what on cable," Dean chirped, grabbing up the remote and flicking through channels. "Oh, hey, Dr Sexy! You'll love this!" he enthused. "Hey, you know what we need? Some of those angel wings pastries, they were awesome! Why don't I just head back to Rome, and…"

_squirt_

"Uh, okay, no angel wings. Hey, Sam, see if there's any popcorn in the larder before you disappear into the deepest darkest depths of the study."

"Hey, since when am I your damned servant? Send the dogs away, and get your own…"

_squirt_

"Uh, let me guess, you want butter, but hold the salt?"

* * *

Send reviews, because they'e the Crostoli* At The Morning Tea Of Life!

*If you don't know what angel wings, or crostoli, are, YOU NEED TO KNOW. Hie thee to Google or Wikipedia. They are deep-fried sugar-dusted** PERFECTION.

** Sugar-dusted Winchesters may not be substituted on calorie control grounds, you depraved beldames.


	6. Chapter 6

**B**There have been some questions raised as to how demon!Dean can do some of the things he's been doing here in the Jimiverse, so I can reveal that these things are possible for the following reasons:

1) Dean can occupy his own body, even with the anti-possession tattoo, because it's his. The anti-possession tattoo prevents anybody except the legitimate owner from using it. When demons possess someone, it's the equivalent of barging in unannounced while you're still in your pyjamas, going through the fridge and putting their feet up on your good cushions. An angel, by contrast, knocks on the door, wipes his or her feet, and brings a batch of home-made cupcakes. Since it 's Dean's body to start with, he has the title deed.

2) As to getting in and out of Bobby's house, the same charm that temporarily lets His Infernal Majesty past the wards works for Dean, too. However, if they annoy him too much, he may put both idjits in a devil's trap to get some peace.

3) It's my Jimiverse, and I can make the characters do whatever I want. Look, I can make Sam wear his hair in pigtails! _tappitytappityclickclickENTER_

**Sam:** Aaaaaaaaaaaargh!

And I can make Crowley tap dance! _tappitytappityclickclickENTER_

**Crowley:** *tappity tappity tappity tappity* Help! Help! Do something, Bobby, do something, this is humiliating, oh, the demonity! *tappity tappity shuffle shuffle tappity*

And I can make Bobby take off his hat! _tappitytappityclickclickENTER_

**Bobby:** Idjit.

And I can make Dean talk about his feelings! _tappitytappityclickclickENTER_

**Dean:** I like beer.

Okay, looks like there are limits even to a fickriter's powers. But mostly, I can do what I want in this sandpit. I reckon there's enough length on Stretch there to get a French braid happening, watch this.

*Sam runs screaming from the room*

* * *

**Chapter Six**

"So, who's that bint?" asked Crowley, reaching for another handful of popcorn and distractedly pushing the head of the Hellhound lounging beside him out of his lap. "Wasn't she just in theatre with Dr Whatshisname?"

"No, that's her twin, Nurse Grabbit," Dean replied, glued to the screen, "She doesn't know yet that her sister has come out of the coma and is trying to hit on the guy who's been trying to hit on her."

"On her, or the sister?" pressed Crowley.

"On Nurse Grabbit," Dean told him, "She doesn't think she's ready to love again, after her fiancé Dr Pullitt died in that terrible crash, oh, you should've seen it, even Dr Sexy couldn't save him with an emergency tongue transplant…"

"Hey, she's snogging him!" Crowley yelped, "She's making him believe she's her sister, and she's snogging him!" He grabbed more popcorn. "Well played, madam."

"It'll all come out later," Dean warned ominously, "If they end up in the janitor's closet, because the birthmarks aren't the same."

"Oh, not him again," complained the King of Hell as another character in scrubs bumbled into the scene, "Why does he keep turning up?"

"Dr Tony is kind of like the perpetual third wheel," said Dean, "Always a groomsman, never a groom, only, nobody knows about his tumour, and he wants to keep it quiet, but people have started noticing the Tourette's type symptoms, and Camilla in the pharmacy has been snooping in the records since she saw his name on a prescription for a chemo pill…"

"Why did she just slap him?" Crowley waved at another character who came striding into shot.

"Because she's in love with him," Dean explained.

Crowley looked confused. "Is she a Klingon, then?"

"She thinks he'll reject her once he finds out about her surgery," added Dean.

"What surgery?" Crowley demanded, "Is she the one who had the arse enhancement?"

"That was a cosmetic repair after the accident in the cocktail bar in Tijuana," Dean answered in awe, "A complete ass rebuild. Only Dr Sexy could have pulled that off. But Camilla in the pharmacy started snooping, when she saw her name on a prescription for anti-inflammatories."

"Wouldn't it be a bit, you know, obvious?" wondered His Infernal Majesty. "I mean, one day, there she is, completely Kiera Knightley, and then she goes on leave for a few weeks, and when she comes back, it's hellooooooooo Jennifer Lopez…"

"No, no, not that surgery," Dean cut him off, "The gender reassignment surgery. Nobody knows about that, either, but Camilla in the pharmacy has been snooping since she saw her name on a prescription for hormone therapy."

"Who's that, then?" Crowley pointed.

"Oh, that's her ex-girlfriend," Dean told him, "From before the surgery."

"They're all being terribly rude," His Hellside Highness sniffed, "Every time she comes into shot, people just ignore her! Is it because she's not a doctor?"

"It's because she's not alive," Dean said, "Nobody can see her. She's a ghost."

"Well, she's not very convincing," sniffed Crowley, "For an unquiet spirit. She's just standing there. Look, she's not trying to pull anybody's head off, or anything! Boooooo!" He threw a handful of popcorn at the screen. Some of the Hellhounds immediately scrambled to snuffle it up.

"Knock it off!" snapped Dean, "I can't see when they do that!"

"Sorry," Crowley apologised, "I'm from an era where entertainment was a lot more… participatory."

"What, like, plays, live music?" Dean asked. "If you didn't like it, you threw food?"

"Where I came from, if you didn't like it, you threw punches, or knives," Crowley shrugged, "But the sentiment's the same. Rubbish! Boooooooo!"

"Shut up! Shut up!" insisted Dean, "Here comes Dr Sexy!"

The series' protagonist strode into shot, looking commandingly assertive yet heartrendingly vulnerable, and made an incisively witty yet profoundly insightful quip about the way gender-reassigned-butt-woman was looking at Dr Tony, then the PA crackled, and he turned on his heel, with barely time to strike a manly pose, and hurried away, the others scurrying after him.

"They've got a cheek, bloody doctors," grumbled Crowley, "I mean, 'stat', indeed. Why can't they just say 'now'? Or 'immediately'? Or at least use the whole word, _statim_. Pretentious wankers, I'll bet you that fewer than one in a hundred can say anything beyond their school motto in Latin…"

"Is that where it comes from? A shortening of _statim_?" Dean turned to the demon king. "I always thought it stood for Shift That Ass Today."

"It was different when I was your age," Crowley was in full miffed mode, "Anaesthetic consisted of drinking until you puked, and hygiene meant the surgeon wiped the knife on his apron between patients, but damn it, they knew the difference between the perfect past and the progressive past and they ate irregular verbs for breakfast…"

"I think it's the boots," mused Dean, watching Dr Sexy's retreating form, then seeing him suddenly reappear in the scrub room, "There's something about those boots that makes women swoon."

"Is he wearing those into the operating theatre?" asked Crowley incredulously, "Is he… well, you can't tell me that's practical. Pretentious, yes, but not practical. WANKER!" He threw another handful of popcorn at the screen. "I hope they get covered in entrails!"

"I wish I had a pair of boots like that," sighed Dean.

"No self-respecting actual cowboy would be seen wearing those," scoffed Crowley, "Except maybe the cowboy from the Village People. Booooooooo!"

"Stop it! Dean griped, grabbing the bowl, "Oh, look, we're out of popcorn now." He suddenly brightened. "Hey, I just realised, a can just go and get myself a pair of cowboy boots!"

"Before you do, you can go and get more popcorn," Crowley waved a hand imperiously. "See if Bobby has something nice to put on it this time. I suppose furikake seasoning would be too much to hope for, see if he has any parmesan, and a little bit of black pepper…"

"Who in hell do you think you are, orderin' me around?" Dean snapped.

"Who in Hell, indeed," Crowley grinned smugly. "I am King of Hell, and therefore your boss, and I have told you to go and make popcorn. Grate the parmesan as finely as you can, dear boy."

Dean put down the empty bowl with all the care of a man in a bar carefully putting down his drink before inviting someone outside for a more in depth discussion about a matter of contention. "Excuse me, I think I heard something wrong," he said, "What did you just say to me?"

"I said," Crowley's smile didn't waver, "I am King of Hell, and you are a demon. _Ergo_, you know that one, don't you,_ ergo_, you are to do as I tell you. _Ipso facto_, there's another one, you will now go and prepare more popcorn. _Statim_." He waved a hand airily. "Don't let me delay you."

Dean took a deep breath, as if holding on to his temper, and stood, then calmly headed for the kitchen.

"It's all in the eye, fellas," Crowley grinned at the Hellhounds as the sound of popcorn preparation came from the kitchen, "Everything I learned about dealing with demons, I learned from a Border Collie. And a Great White Shark." Jimi Junior, who'd been sitting on the sofa between them, curled his lip and growled. "I should've had your sire nutted when I had the chance," he scowled at the dog, "If I'd known he was going to turn into a Hunter's dog, traitorous bloody mutt."

"Popcorn's up, Your Majesty," announced Dean, carefully carrying a steaming bowl of fresh snack, "You want me to spit polish your shoes while I'm at it?"

"Not today, although I thank you for the offer," Crowley offered a smile, "Perhaps I'll take you up on that next time IiiiiiieeeeeEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Dean unceremoniously upended the entire bowl over Crowley, who discovered at that moment that the popcorn was not seasoned with a delightful mixture of piquant cheese and the crisp bite of ground pepper, but at least half a canister of salt. "Snacks are served, Your Royal Maj!" Dean trilled.

"Aaaaaaaaaargh!" yodelled Crowley, jumping up and performing a peculiar little shimmying dance as salt and popcorn went down his neck, his jacket and his shirt, "Aaaaaaaaaargh! Aaaaaaaaargh!" Given that he was shedding deliciously salty popcorn, Jimi Junior suddenly decided that he didn't hate Crowley after all, or that he was at least prepared to tolerate him for as long as delectable morsels kept falling out of the bottom of his trousers. "Aaaaaaaaaaargh!"

"You want me to put some music on if you're gonna dance?" asked Dean. "Hey, that's the Watusi, right?"

"You little Yankee shit!" shrieked Crowley, "I'll see you spend a Topside month in the Lower Circles for that!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm terrified," shrugged Dean, carefully retrieving the bowl. "Ow, I'll just put this back before Bobby gets angry."

Eyes blazing red, Crowley paused long enough in his lunatic gyrations to slap Dean upside the head.

"Don't you talk back to me, sonny," he growled. "I have spent more than three hundred years pissing on smartarse little worms like you."

Eyes flashing black, Dean gave him a predatory smile. "Ohhhh, I am gonna enjoy makin' you sorry you ever did that," he chuckled.

"Well, somebody has to teach you some manners," Crowley snapped.

"Not you, Lucky," Dean's snarl was matched by Jimi and the Hellhounds that assembled around him.

"Oh, am I supposed to be intimidated?" Crowley clucked solicitously. "I'm so sorry, I didn't get the memo. Gedda! Gedda my darling!" Never far away, the little comet of white smoke that was Hell's most vicious Hellpoodle materialised, took form, and stood between Crowley's feet, eyes glowing hotly, slavering right back at her contemporaries. "They won't stay in physical form, you pillock," he sneered, "She's a full Hellhound, and she'll go through you, your half-breed, and your little posse there like a Valley girl through a football team… oh, were you aware of the way that your top lip quivers when you get really angry, that's just adorable, I bet gay men pick fights with you just to see that."

With a wordless snarl of fury, Dean held out his right hand and called forth the Blade.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam's eyes were on the ancient tome he was reading as he made his way back to the living room, so he didn't see exactly what was happening until he nearly stumbled into the middle of it.

"Hey, Crowley, we've found something, but it's in something that looks like Enochian, but isn't," he began, turning the page, "Could you have a look at it a- HOLY SHIT! BOBBY! _BOBBY_!"

Bobby hadn't heard Sam call for him with a shriek like that since he was four years old and found a garter snake in the bathroom; he dropped his book, and headed straight for the living room.

"Sam? Sam? What is it? Wha- GOD'S TITS AND SATAN'S TOILET TISSUE!"

There was a Mexican stand-off of sorts going on in the living room.

At one end of the sofa stood Dean, eyes completely black, the First Blade raised for a killing strike as the quivering group of Hellhounds and Jimi strained as if on invisible leashes.

At the other end stood Crowley, eyes glowing malevolently red, drawing a bead on Dean's head with his angel-blade bullet gun, whilst Gedda the Hellpoodle, eyes as red as her person's, slavered.

The air between them hummed with infernal power as each held the other's weaponry and canine companionship at bay.

Bobby cleared his throat. "All right," he began calmly, "Whatever it is, we aint gonna improve the situation by havin' you two idjits kill each other…"

"I beg to differ, darling," Crowley grated out, "Means to an end, and all that."

"How about if I promise not to kill him outright?" rasped Dean.

Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, whatever you two ladies have been arguin' about, why don't you just loosen your corsets, and try to talk about this like rational beings?"

The air between the antagonists began to crackle.

"Uh, guys," Sam held up his hands in a plea for de-escalation, "Look, this, uh, can we just try to, you know, take this down a notch? I'm sure that whatever you said to each other was, uh, genuinely hurtful, and we all want the same thing here, so…"

_squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt_

Dean and Crowley fell to the sofa, wailing, as the holy water hit them.

"Idjits," grunted Bobby, lowering his spray bottle, "Is there any point me askin' why you two are swingin' your handbags at each other?"

"He's an arrogant little turd who needs to learn his place!" hissed Crowley, wiping at his face with his tie.

"You're not the boss of me!' yelled Dean. "Make your own damned popcorn, I WANT COWBOY BOOTS!"

In an eyeblink, he was gone.

"Dean? Dean!" Sam called anxiously. "Dean! Fuck!" His eyes narrowed as he glared at Crowley. "Where did he go?" he demanded.

"To blazes, if I'm lucky," sniffed Crowley, wincing slightly under the weight of the Sam Winchester Patented Bitchface™. "I don't know, all right? We were watching that show he likes so much, Dr Sexy, and he decided he wanted cowboy boots. So presumably he's gone to wherever one goes to steal cowboy boots. How should I know about cowboy boots? Go and ask a bloody cowboy!"

"Shut up, Crowley," sighed Bobby, as Sam fumbled for his cell and anxiously began trying to contact his brother. "I suggest that you, Your Majesty, do not do anything to provoke the boy. You wouldn't be the first demon he's killed. And he had the juice to hold you off, didn't he?" Crowley's resentful glower let him know he was right. "You're a demon, so the Hunter in him would be happy to kill you, and the demon in him would be happy to kill you, and the Dean in him will be sittin' on the sidelines, cheering 'em on."

"And throwing popcorn, no doubt," humphed His Miffed Majesty.

"Or rocks. Possibly grenades. So, you make nice with the little baby demon, because if you pull faces until it spits its dummy out again, I aint gonna intervene."

"He's not answering," interrupted Sam, "I'll leave a message, but he looked so angry."

"He'll come home when he gets hungry," Bobby chuckled. "Meanwhile, make yourself useful, Crowley, Have you ever seen anythin' like this before?"

They spent some time poring over the book that Sam had located, with Crowley musing over parts of it, when all of a sudden, there was a small _fwoph _of outrushing displaced air behind them.

"Dean," Sam let out the metaphorical breath he'd been holding, "Fuck, bro, you scared the shit out of me, where th-_ huh_?"

On the floor of the living room sat a pair of hand-tooled cowboy boots.

Beside them sat a squirrel managing to look extremely sheepish.

"Uh, hi," it said in a cheerful voice. One of its paws raised in a little wave. "Um, Sam, Bobby, I think we might have a problem."

* * *

Isn't it nice when the plot bunnies play nice, and take turns? Both Fergus and Ulfric are sitting on poor little Bubba-Imogen, but plot bunnies are not easily squashed. I speak from bitter experience.

Send reviews because they're the Delicious Popcorn Brought To You As You Recline On The Sofa Of Life!


	7. Chapter 7

**Kudos,** and possibly an *****AUTHOR CREDIT*****, go to **Leahelisabeth**, who saw where this was going two chapters ago...

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Sam stood gawping at the squirrel, which scratched its side and raised its little snout to the air.

"Is there any more popcorn?" it asked.

"Dean?" Sam managed eventually.

"Uh, present and correct!" chittered the squirrel, smiling widely to reveal its teeth, then looked down at himself. "Or at least, I'm present, and, and, and, I got the correct number of limbs."

Bobby took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose with a put-upon sigh. "You know, whenever something happens, it's for a reason," he began. "It aint necessarily a straightforward reason, and it aint necessarily a good reason, but even if it's just the random motion of the universe, whenever somethin' happens, it has a reason." He glared down at the squirrel. "And I gotta tell ya, son, whatever the reason is for this, I'm just dyin' to hear it."

"Well, you'd have been really angry if I'd just grabbed somebody off the street," the squirrel chittered irritably, "And the only other option was a nearby skunk with an upset stomach, and I didn't think anybody would like that."

"Uh, I think that what Bobby is getting at," Sam clarified, "Is, um, why are you not in your own body." He paused. "Dean, why the hell _are_ you not in your own body?"

"Ah, well," began the squirrel, "There's a totally good reason for that."

"And?" prompted Sam.

"Well," the squirrel continued, "I wanted a pair of cowboy boots, right, and so I went to this store, do you remember the one just out of Gillette? We saw it when we were on that job in Wyoming – I remembered it because I remember this chick I hooked up with there, Marianne, her name was, and she had this pair of boots, and didn't she look awesome in those and nothin' else, and…"

"Do you think we could get to the point?" Crowley asked trenchantly, "Only I've got a meeting to get to six months from now."

"I'm gettin' there," the squirrel chattered, "So, anyway, I thought, hey, if I want a pair of cowboy boots, I can just go and get a pair of cowboy boots!"

"And you needed a squirrel to steal a pair of boots," Bobby didn't sound convinced. "Makes perfect sense. Or at least, in a world where the entire population suffers from congenital brain damage, it would make perfect sense."

"No, no," squirrel!Dean assured him, "It's only a small shop, and I wanted to do it… unobtrusively." He waved a paw at Crowley. "It was his idea."

"What?" yelped the King of Hell. "It sodding was not!"

"Do stuff unobtrusively, you said," the squirrel actually managed to pout, "So, I thought, hey, I'll just duck in, and pop into the owner, find a pair in my size, take 'em out to where I am, then put him back in the store, smoke out, he thinks he's nodded off and had a short nightmare, he has an excuse to go get a drink, I got a pair of boots, win-win!"

"That was a really stupid plan," humphed Sam.

"It was a totally awesome plan!" countered the squirrel, tail bristling in irritation, "And it worked perfectly!"

"So, this," Sam gestured vaguely at his brother's current host, "This was part of the plan? Could you just go back and explain the bit where 'I Want To Live As A Squirrel, And I'd Like You All To Call Me Rocky From Now On' comes into it?"

"Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time," offered Dean.

"I could get real sick o' hearin' that from you," grumbled Bobby.

"Dean, you are now a frigging squirrel!" Sam waved his hands in agitation, "How the_ fuck_ did you end up inside a frigging _squirrel_?"

"That's what she said, folks," beamed Crowley.

"I'm gettin' to it!" snapped the squirrel. "So, I stashed my body in a park, where nobody would see it. Then I went and got the boots, then took 'em back to the park, there I was, no problemo, so I took the boot man back to his store, then I smoked out, headed back to get my body, and my new boots…"

"But," rumbled Bobby, "This is the bit where we get to the 'but'."

"When I got back there, the place was crawling with people," the squirrel replied, managing to look sheepish. "Some woman was walking her dog and it found me, and she was talkin' to a cop, and, and, and then this van came, and, and it bodynapped me!"

"So you lost your body," Sam glared at the squirrel.

"No! No!" the squirrel protested. "It's not lost! I know exactly where it is!"

"Well, what are you doin' in a damned squirrel?" Sam's voice took on a note of shrillness. "Don't just stand there, take the poor thing back where you found it, smoke out, and go get your own damned body back!"

"I tried that," the squirrel drooped glumly, "I couldn't get in."

"What?" Sam yelped. "What do you mean you couldn't get in?"

"I don't know!" The squirrel put its hands on its hips and humphed in a way that would've made Chip 'n' Dale hand in their Cute Cards. "I tried to get it back, but I couldn't get into the building where they took it! It's like it was warded, or something."

"And what building would that be, Dean?" asked Sam with a searing Bitchface #15™ (There Had Better Be A Good Explanation For This, Dean) just as his cell chirped. He grabbed for it and answered it.

"Is this Sam Winchester?" asked a woman in a businesslike fashion.

"Uh, yeah," he replied, glaring at his brother.

"Mr Winchester, my name is Diana Ledo, and I'm calling from the Campbell County Sheriff's Office in Gillette, Wyoming. I need to ask you, Mr Winchester – do you know a Dean Winchester?"

"Yes," Sam told her, "He's my brother." _And right now, he's a squirrel_, he added _sotto voce_ for the benefit of said sciurid sibling. "He's, uh, he's not in any trouble, is he?"

Her voice took on a softer tone. "Mr Winchester, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you."

She talked. Sam listened. Sam gave what he hoped were appropriate responses. When he cut the call, he turned eyes full of murder onto the little rodent.

"That was the Sheriff's Office in Gillette," he told them, "And they'd be ever so grateful if I could go and ID the body of one Dean Winchester."

"Balls," said Bobby.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"The thing is," Bobby mused over a glass of scotch, "We gotta get Dean back into his body ASAP."

"But I couldn't get into the building," the squirrel reminded him, hopping up onto the arm of his chair and sniffing at the glass. "You think I could get some of that on a saucer?"

"Shaddap," Bobby pushed him off. "If it's an old historical building, or there's been our sort o' trouble there in the past, Hunters may have warded the place," he suggested. "I've seen it happen. People took that sort o' thing a lot more seriously two hundred years ago."

"We can't just show up and break the wards to get in," Sam added, "They could be there for a reason. We got no idea what might already have been there, and what any Hunter might've done to lay it to rest."

"Besides which, you can't just show up and grab his body," Bobby reminded them. "It's been found, it's been documented, it's in The System. And because an otherwise outwardly healthy man was found dead, there will have to be an autopsy…"

"Noooooooooo!" screeched the squirrel, "How will I eat if they pull my guts out?"

"Maybe they'll start with your brain," shrugged Sam, "You could definitely continue to function as usual without that."

"The point is," Bobby attempted to steer the conversation back towards relevance, "The point _is_, if it goes missing, that will set alarm bells ringin'. " He sighed. "It won't be released until it's IDed, and the autopsy has been conducted - only then will be released to a funeral director. You can't just sign for it like a package, and put it in shotgun in the car."

"What, you never saw 'Weekend At Bernie's'?" said Crowley brightly.

"That could take days," Sam groaned.

"That'll leave scars!" howled the squirrel.

"There's also the question of, uh," Sam began uncomfortably, "What if it, uh, you know, it doesn't have homeostasis or a demonic occupant to keep it together…?"

"Cold storage will help," Bobby replied, "But, yeah, it'll be slow, but it'll be startin' to decompose as we speak."

The squirrel let out an anguished squawk. "No! We can't let that happen! I don't want to go squishy around the edges!" It chattered anxiously. "We gotta go get it now!"

"Dean, it's not that simple!" Sam snapped, "Thanks to you and your stupid boots, we can't just go take your body back!"

"So, take me back to my body," suggested the Dean-squirrel, preening its whiskers.

Sam let out a huff. "Dean, I can't just walk into a Sheriff's Office with a squirrel on my shoulder," he said.

"Tell 'em I'm a furry parrot," said Dean.

"You are not a furry parrot," Sam ground out through clenched teeth.

"If I sit really still, I could be a big wart?" Dean offered.

"I'm prepared to concede that you're some sort of malignant growth, yes, but it wouldn't work," Sam replied.

"I could hide under your shirt, and we'll tell everybody you've got a tumour?" prompted Dean.

"You could hide down his trousers and we'll tell everybody he's a porn star," smiled Crowley.

"Assistance animal? Guide squirrel?" Dean proposed as Sam shrieked at the thought of having his brother literally squirrelled away down his pants. "I could do tricks! You could say, 'Fetch the pen', and I could, like, pee on your shoulder, and… ow!" As he preened, a couple of whiskers came away with a piece of skin. "Ow! My whiskers just fell out!" The little animal stared in horror as a patch of fur came away next. "OH MY GOD I'M GOING BALD!"

"Your ickle wickle little host is breaking down," Crowley contributed. "You're a demon, Dean. Squirrels were never intended to hold demons. Acorns, yes, carelessly discarded confectionery, yes, but not demons. You stay in there much longer, it'll just disintegrate from the inside."

"I aint condonin' that sort of animal cruelty," Bobby said firmly, "You get on out of that poor little critter right now, boy."

"_Statim_, even," grinned Crowley.

"But, but," stammered the squirrel, "Where will I go? I can't just swirl around for a week, waiting for my body to get back!" He looked thoughtful. "I can't eat! I can't drink! I can't play with Jimi! I can't practise my guitar! I can't get laid! It'll be really BOOOOORIIIIIING!"

"It's self-inflicted," insisted Bobby, "So, get on out, before you do the little guy any more damage."

"But where will I go? What will I do?" wailed the squirrel.

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," Bobby deadpanned, "You can go swirl around in the panic room, out of the way."

"But I'll be stuck down theeeeeere!" protested the squirrel. "Don't put me in the panic roooooom!"

"Dean, we don't have another option!" Sam interjected in exasperation.

"Um, actually, we might," said Crowley slowly. Three pairs of mammalian eyes turned to look at him. "But I'm not sure you're going to like it."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"I hate this idea," griped Sam, as Bobby carefully inscribed the small piece of mottled parchment.

"So do I," griped the squirrel, wiggling its nose adorably.

"This idea sucks," said Sam.

"This idea blows," said the squirrel.

"It's creepy," protested Sam.

"And it's weird," added the squirrel.

"Yeah, it's definitely weird," nodded Sam

"And it's totally creepy," agreed the squirrel.

"For the record, I'm not completely happy with it either," growled Bobby, not looking up, "But it's our least worst option."

"Look on the bright side, children," Crowley suggested, "The fangirls will love it."

"Fangirls?" echoed Sam dubiously.

"You know, Becky and her ilk, 'More Than Brothers'?" Crowley prompted. "The ones who get some incomprehensible enjoyment from the thought of you two having it off. Technically, there'll be one of you inside the other – they'll squee their little hearts out at the thought of tha-AAIII!"

Dean shot across the room and sank his front teeth into Crowley's ankle.

"Getoffgetoffgetoffgetoff!" howled Crowley, shaking his leg back and forth.

"If you two idjits hurt that poor critter, I'll bang your heads together," scowled Bobby, peering at what he'd written. Dean eventually let go, and scampered back up to the arm of the chair.

"I want that vicious, scrofulous little vermin tested for rabies!" yowled Crowley. "And the squirrel, too!"

"Knock it off!" commanded Bobby. "Now, if this charm works, the idea is that it's temporarily givin' your brother here permission to, uh, well, 'possess' aint the right word here…"

"Share?" suggested Crowley brightly. "Co-habit? Shack up?"

"Shut up, you, so if it works, Dean will be able to, uh," he waved a hand, "And, uh, he won't take over, but he'll be there, and, and, look, all I can say is, if you idjits gotta start one of your arguments, just don't do it in a public place, or somebody will call the men in white coats."

"Got it," acknowledged Sam glumly, taking the piece of parchment from Bobby and scanning it. "You know, if this doesn't work, I'm not sure I'll be that disappointed. And you seriously owe me for this, Dean."

"Hey, while we're there, I'll go get you a pair of cowboy boots!" piped the squirrel helpfully, before drooping under the weight of Bobby's glare. "Yeah, yeah, okay, just remember, no thinking about tofu once I'm in there."

"I won't think about tofu if you don't think about sex," offered Sam, picking up the Zippo on the table.

He read the short passage on the parchment, set fire to it, let it burn away, then took the ash residue, pulled his shirt out of the way, and smeared it across his anti-possession tattoo.

A howling column of smoke emerged from the squirrel. Jimi jumped and woofed playfully at it as the swirling vapour eddied around him, then headed for Sam…

The younger Winchester carefully held up his hands, and looked at them.

"Well?" asked Bobby, opening a window and letting the stunned squirrel make a break for the great outdoors.

Sam examined his hands for a moment more, then threw his hands in the air and bellowed,

"ROAD TRIIIIIIIIIP!"

* * *

Dean-In-A-Sam; it's like Sam-In-A-Box, only... more oogy.

Send reviews to prod Fergus along. Make them chocolate-coated, or possibly alcoholic, reviews, because I might just need them to write the next chapter…


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

It didn't feel nearly as bizarre as it should've, thought Sam, and having been possessed by an actual evil demon, and later an even more evil archangel, he thought he was in a position to hold an informed opinion. Or maybe it was because he and Dean had lived in such close proximity for as long as he could remember, given the odd interlude; when you are close enough to know the most minute details of somebody's everyday life, from the amount of your shower gel he steals to the time it takes, to the minute, for a bad bacon cheeseburger to travel through him at high speed, maybe it's a form of intimacy like possession that just doesn't include sharing an actual body…

His hands suddenly flew into the air of their own accord, and his voice bellowed,

"ROAD TRIIIIIIIIP!"

Bobby gave him a look. "So, can I take it that he's in there?"

"Oh, yeah, he's in here," Sam humphed, feeling the strange sensation of what he could only describe as essence of _Dean_ lodged in his being. "That was him, in case you didn't know." _**Knock it off**__,_ he sent the searing thought inwards, _**Let me drive.**_

"Oh, I think we figured that one out, Moose," Crowley winced, wiggling a finger in one ear, "I'd recognise the dulcet tones of his mellifluous voice anywhere."

"Dean, you okay in there?" asked Bobby cautiously.

Sam felt the thought as if his brother had spoken to him. "He says he's fine," he relayed, "He says… what? Screw you, jerk, this is your fault anyway…"

"He says…?" prompted Bobby.

"He says… he says 'It smells like Dora the Explorer shampoo and lentil stew in here'," grumbled Sam, "And he's demanding that I eat a bacon double cheeseburger. With onions."

"Yup, he's fine," grunted Bobby, "So, you idjits will be leavin' immediately…"

"ROAD TRIIIIIIIIP!" Sam yelled again. His face went from a beaming smile to a scowl at the speed of outrage. "Dean, knock it off!"

_Sorry,_ came the small thought. _Is there any more popcorn?_

"We'll leave right away," Sam checked his watch, "I don't think it would be a good idea for Dean to try to transport us; I don't want to end up in Gillette, in France, by mistake."

_Are there any public monuments there?_ chirped Dean's voice in his head.

"And flying is not an option," Sam went on firmly, shuddering at the thought of having his brother's pteromerhanophobia bouncing around in his head, "So, if we're gonna drive…"

_Hell yeah we're gonna drive_

"It'll take us, uh, about seven hours, I guess, so we'd better get going."

"Well, at least you won't have to argue about who gets to drive," Crowley smiled sunnily. "Call us when you get the meatsuit back, I will be so interested to know what story you concoct."

"You'll be right there to hear it for yourself, Your Majesty," Bobby instructed, "Because you are goin' with 'em."

Crowley suddenly looked panicked. "What? Me? Drive? With… him? In his car?"

"The very same," Bobby nodded.

"Drive?" repeated Crowley. "Drive? As in, get into that antiquated piece of machinery out there…"

Sam felt his right hand ball into a fist, and his top lip start to quiver.

"…And spend many tedious hours trapped inside it with him, inside him?" He gave Jimi a wary look. "With him?"

"That's generally what 'drive' means, yeah," agreed Sam.

"I don't think so," sniffed Crowley, "Believe me, I have spent enough time with him behind the wheel or the handlebars to last me a lifetime! To last me several lifetimes! There is no way I am playing Thelma to his Louise again! If I had a heart, I'd've had several coronary episodes by now!" The demon king crossed his arms. "I'm not going."

_Chicken,_ said Dean. _Hey, it's really kind of crowded in here. What's that?_

Sam consulted the memory. _**Calculus.**_

_What about that?_

_**Uh, irregular French verbs.**_

_Whoa, what's that great big tentacly thing over there, it's HEY! It tried to bite me!_

_**That's my sense of propriety, Dean.**_

_Well, I don't like it._

_**That's cool, bro, sometimes it doesn't like you, either.**_

"We don't know what's keepin' Dean out o' the building," Bobby reasoned, "It could be more than a hundred years old. They won't have the time or wherewithal to be researchin' it while they're there, so a demon who's been around the block a few times, so to speak, may be needed."

"But Bobby, darling," wheedled Crowley, "I can be of so much more use here with you – I can help with the research, I can make the coffee, I can fetch the Speyside single malts, pop over to Japan to pick up some authentic _unagi no yanagawa_ for lunch, if you find you need a break, there's this marvellous little _onsen _at the foot of Mount Aso, and they also do the most relaxing pedicure there…" he stuttered into silence at the withering glare Bobby gave him.

"You will go with Sam and Dean," Bobby stipulated, "And you will do whatever you can to help them get Dean's body back, so we can get on with undoin' this screw-up which is in a large part of your making." He stood up, and turned back to his study. "The only 'help' I'll use you for it to amuse the dog," he added, "She does love her a big meaty bone, I can only imagine how much a half-Hellhound would enjoy chewin' on an actual demon."

"You'll regret this, Bullwinkle," warned Crowley, "You'll regret this, the first time he gets us pulled over, and we have to wait around while he hijacks the meatsuit and screws the female police officer, you'll wish you'd listened to me… Bobby, love, you wouldn't really feed me to your dog, would you?" asked the deflated King of Hell mournfully.

"Crowley, I'd smear you with meat paste and peanut butter first," Bobby snapped.

"Oh, you flirt…"

"Shaddap," Bobby snarled, "Now, I will be in the study, and you idjits will get your shit together and get going."

"I'm hurt rather than angry," sniffed Crowley, disappearing.

"Asshat," muttered Bobby. "All right then, now, Dean, you listen to me boy and you listen good, you let your brother deal with…"

Crowley suddenly reappeared, clutching several bottles. He looked back at their bemused faces.

"Well, you don't expect me to spend any more time with him completely sober, do you?"

"You can't get drunk," Sam pointed out, "You're a demon."

"Maybe I've just never tried hard enough," Crowley opined disdainfully, opening a bottle. "It's entirely possible that this little expedition may well be the motivating factor required to spur me on to my most diligent effort yet."

Sam's hand reached out and grabbed the bottle. "Dean," he growled, "I have to drive, and I'm still more or less human."

_But it's really good stuff,_ Dean wheedled, _Just a bit, Sammy, go on, just a mouthful, please? Pleeeease?_

Sam shrugged, and lifted the bottle to drink. _**Yeah, this is good stuff. Good call, bro.**_

"Maybe not a good idea," contributed Crowley, "Because if we get pulled over, and he wants to use your body to bonk a plod, a case of Distiller's Droop might make her just annoyed enough to arrest you, and that will be plain awkward."

_We could stick the Blade in him,_ Dean suggested. _We can both savour the moment, this way._

_**Not in the living room,**_ Sam thought back, taking another swig, _**The blood would never come out of the rug.**_

"So, Dean, like I was sayin', don't you go pesterin' your brother," cautioned Bobby. "Don't you make a damned nuisance of yourself…"

"Jesus, Bobby," Sam grinned, "I put a leash on Lucifer, you think I can't squelch my own big brother if I have to?"

_Don't you dare go squelching me, bitch,_ came the annoyed yap, _I will not be squelched! In fact, let me make it clear right now, that if any hot chicks come into our grid square, I reserve the right to take over, you might even learn something, so…_

Sam cast his mind back to an afternoon he'd once spent reading Chaucer whilst sipping a skinny decaf mocha pumpkin spice latte with extra froth.

_Aaaaaaaaaaargh! Aaaaiiiiieeeeeee!_ came the anguished wailing, _Stop it! Stop it! Make it stoooooop!_

Sam added in the thought of tucking into a nice bowl of silken tofu banana pudding, just to make the point.

"He says he'll behave," he relayed.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They were ready to leave in under half an hour, Crowley protesting at being relegated to the back seat.

"Jimi likes to ride shotgun whenever he can," said Sam firmly, with Dean's thoughts behind him.

"But he's a dog!" complained Crowley.

"And you're a demon," Sam replied, "Much lower down on the scale of worthwhile beings."

"You've got a demon sitting in your head," griped Crowley, "I don't know why you're being so prissy about having one sit in the front seat."

"Because you're an asshole, Crowley, it's that simple," snarled Sam, feeling Dean back him on that too. "Now, you can go on ahead if you want, I don't give a damn, just stop bitching, or fuck off."

_I go all tingly when you take control like that,_ came Dean's thought. _**Jerk,**_ Sam sent back.

"Bobby would never forgive me for abandoning you," sighed Crowley, "And I really don't want to do anything that might inspire him to try out his latest batch of anti-demon ammunition."

"He's up to Mark VI," Sam informed him.

Crowley looked startled. "Mark VI? What's in those?"

Sam beamed hugely. "Ah, it's a surprise!" he trilled, feeling Dean's laughter bubble at the back of his own throat. He started the engine.

A strange but not unpleasant sensation, a frisson of affection, anticipation and enjoyment, ran through him as the engine rumbled to life, and settled into its normal deep, gurgling idle.

_**Was that you?**_ he queried.

_Yeah, _came the reply._ Listen to her purr. That's V8 American iron, that is. One of the horniest sounds in the world._

Sam paused in bemusement_**. Does that… you get that when you start the car?**_

_Every damned time._ It felt like a happy sigh.

_**I don't know if that's amusing, or just disturbing.**_ He put the engine into gear, honked a farewell to Bobby, and steered the Impala carefully out of the yard.

_Put on some music,_ demanded Dean, so Sam poked at the radio until he found a station he liked. Inside his head, Dean made a noise of disgust.

"Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole," Sam murmured sunnily.

_Bitch._ The radio suddenly snapped off. Frowning, Sam turned it on again.

Twenty seconds later, it turned off again.

"Dean," he growled, "Stop messing with the radio."

_Well, find some proper music_, griped his brother.

"I find I must side with the squirrel on this one," Crowley screwed up his face in distaste, "I mean, what is it with young people today? The music's all the same. It's angry black men and gyrating women, or oh-I'm-so-in-love and gyrating women, or twelve-year-olds trying to pretend to be angry black men, hold the gyrating women, maybe but not always, not that I have anything against gyrating women, in fact I'm in favour of gyrating women, but as temptation goes, it's so, so, well, clumsy, crass, I find it professionally embarrassing…"

The radio clicked on again, and dramatic music burst from the speakers. Crowley smiled.

_What the fuck is that crap?_ squawked Dean. _It sounds like kitchen appliances being tortured!_

_**Mussorgsky,**_ recalled Sam. _**Well, Rimsky-Korsakov's reworking of the themes, anyway…**_

The radio cut out.

"Hey!" snapped Crowley, "I was listening to that!"

The radio turned on.

"You might learn something," suggested the King of Hell.

_Yeah, like how to pull my own eardrums out through my nostrils._

"Dean, it was one of the most provocative pieces of music of its time," protested Sam, "The reworking of 'Night on Bald Mountain' is one of the most widely acclaimed pieces of music from the Russian Romantic period…"

The radio turned off.

"You see what I've had to deal with?" humphed Crowley.

The radio turned on.

_I'm gonna kick you in the music appreciation, _growled Dean,_ I'm gonna find whichever bit makes you listen to this crap, and I'm gonnaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!_

_**Dean!**_ The anxious thought speared through Sam.

'_S okay,_ muttered Dean, _I just tripped over 'Lord of the Rings'. Seriously, there's books lyin' around everywhere in here. You really need to have a spring clean._

_**You really need to stop poking around in my head, **_countered Sam.

The radio turned off.

The radio turned on.

The radio turned off.

The radio turned on.

"Will you two knock it off?" snapped Sam. "I'll tear the damned thing out!"

_You touch my Baby,_ growled Dean, _You hurt a single wire on her precious little loom, and I'll…_

Sam thought about the first act of the ballet 'Spartacus', with lots of men in ballet tights leaping across the stage.

_I hate you,_ Dean subsided.

* * *

So, now Fergus is out-yammering Ulfric. How the worm - or the plot bunny - turns. Send reviews, because they are the Dramatic Musical Interludes During The Interminable Car Trips Of Life! (Motorhead gig, bring your own gear, chamber music appreciation with the vicar, bring a strawberry sponge.)


	9. Chapter 9

Great, just great, Ulfric was dictating the next chapter of 'Dude Were's My Apocalypse', then the last quarter of the document disappeared, and now Fergus has his teeth in my leg again...

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

Sam finally managed to impose a roster system for music, during which they would take turns to choose the entertainment, by threatening to splash holy water around and buy a soy milk smoothie and down the whole thing.

_We need snacks,_ declared Dean.

_**We don't,**_ replied Sam.

_Seriously, we need snacks, _insisted Dean,_ I'm hungry._

_**You want snacks, **_corrected Sam,_** Not the same thing.**_

_Yes it is!_ Sam could feel the pout. _I'm hungryyyyy! I'm hungryyyyyyy!_

"Dean, you're a frigging demon!" Sam snapped, "You don't have to eat!"

_But I want to, _Dean whined,_ Come on, Sammy, I'm hungry. And bored. But mostly hungry._

"Dean, we need to get to your body ASAP," Sam pointed out, "So we should probably just keep driving, get there as soon as we can."

"I vote for that," agreed Crowley. "Let's not prolong the horror any more than is absolutely necessary."

_Saaaaaaaaam!_ Dean was insistent. _Saaaaaaaam! Don't ignore me! Pay attention to meeeeeeeee!_

_**Knock it off!**_ Sam thought sharply, _**Jesus, you're as bad as Lucifer!**_

_No I'm not, _sniffed Dean,_ he wanted to destroy humanity. I just want to destroy a cheeseburger._

_**Dean…**_

_A double bacon cheeseburger, with extra bacon._

_**Dean…**_

_And waffle fries. I love waffle fries._

_**Dean…**_

_And a great big piece of pie, with cream, and ice-cream._

_**Dean…**_

_And some wings for Jimi, he loves wings, look at him, _Sam felt his head glance sideways into Jimi's adoring eyes, _How could you not pay attention to an animal that loves you unconditionally, and would lay down his life for you?_

_**I'm doin' okay ignoring you, **_Sam shot back a tad smugly.

Dean went quiet.

"Can I assume that the problem child has finally shut up?" enquired Crowley politely. "Yes? Good. Because it's my turn with the radio. Now, I thought something miserable and morbid, to match my mood, so I suggest we listen to Rachmaninoff…"

Sam's breath hitched as felt a small stab of cramp hit his stomach.

"Argh! Dean was that you?"

The cramp lingered, gnawing at his gut, then it transformed into a startlingly loud rumble.

Crowley looked up. "Did you hear something?"

Sam's eyes crossed as the simmering discomfort became a feeling of hunger, turning so intense that he felt nauseous.

An image of a burger arose in his mind, a burger on a shiny white plate, with a plump and fluffy bun, and two perfectly grilled prime mince patties topped with creamy slices of melting cheese, thick and luscious mustard dripping slowly down the side, and on the top layer, a generous, fragrant nest of thick, juicy bacon rashers, salty pink perfection…

"Nyaaaaaaa," went Sam.

…And stacked next to it, a pile of golden waffle fries, steaming gently, piled together in a riot of light crunchy perfection, as the scents from the plate tangled together playfully to stream to his nose, the delicious promise of the bacon and the glorious aroma of fried carbohydrate tantalising his senses with a sense of heady anticipation…

"Nyaaaaaaa," went Sam again, wiping at the small drip of drool as it started down one side of his chin.

…To be followed by a piece of pastry perfection, a piece of dessert heaven, a piece of pie, with a light and buttery golden-brown crust, filled with a sweet-yet-deliciously-tart mix of firm luscious fruit, the bright clean taste of spiced apple, or the dark, decadent delights of berries, heavy with thick syrup that mixes with the cream creating swirls of irresistible marvellously thick and rich mouthfuls that explode across the taste buds…

"Nyaaaaaaa," went Sam, clutching at the wheel as his stomach rumbled and his eyes crossed, "Dean, stop it! Stop it! Oh, God, I'm so hungry…"

_It's how I feel,_ sighed Dean in a small voice.

_**Because you want to make me pull over to feed like a starving wolf,**_ accused Sam.

_No, _Dean clarified,_ This is how I feel all the time._

Sam felt his eyes bug. _**ALL the time? You feel this hungry ALL the time?**_

_Well, obviously, not ALL the time, _Dean admitted._ Like, when I'm sleeping. Although I do dream about pie. I had this really weird one, once, where I was in this pie restaurant, and Cas was the waiter, and he kept messing up my order, so I got all this pie for free. Or when I'm with a woman. Clearly, when the Living Sex God is struttin' his stuff, he's not thinking about pie, he's thinking about the beautiful, natural act he's engaged in, although there have been occasions where food has been a feature, for example, just a couple of weeks ago, there was this chick who was a chef, and…_

"Don't you dare think about beautiful natural acts!" shrieked Sam, "I swear, I'll think about, about, uh, about… lavender! I'll think about lavender!"

_You wouldn't!_ Dean's horrified thought shot through him.

"Just try me," growled Sam, "I swear, I'll think about lavender!"

_Look, I'm only ever tryin' to educate you_, complained Dean, _And she was a really good cook, she was a professional, and she knew how to make a chocolate sauce…_

_**Fields of lavender!**_ thought Sam, _**Wide, green fields of lavender, as far as the eye can see…**_

_Stop it!_ howled Dean, _Stop it!_

_**Sprawling, rolling green fields of lavender, waving gently in the wind,**_ Sam's thoughts rambled on, _**All in flower, with the scent hanging in the air…**_

_Sam…_

…_**And the bees buzzing around, pollenating the flowers, making more lavender…**_

_Sam…_

…_**And the harvester cutting the lavender, and the smell of the oil permeating everything it touches…**_

_Sam…_

…_**Lavender-scented candles, lavender-scented soap, lavender-flavoured chocolate…**_

_Huh?_ Sam felt his brother do a double-take. _You can put lavender in chocolate?_

…_**Lavender-flavoured cheese, lavender-flavoured honey, lavender-flavoured ice-cream…**_

_Aaaaaargh! You're making this up, you freak!_

…_**Lavender in the bath, lavender in the sheets, lavender in your sock drawer…**_

_Come on, Sam!_ whined Dean's presence, _Just one, just let me tell you about one little beautiful natural act…_

_…**LAVENDER BEER!...**_

_Aaaaaargh! Aaaaaaaaargh! Noooooooooo!_

"Running naked through a field of lavender!" shrieked Sam. "With no clothes on!"

There was a moment of silence.

"Well," began Crowley eventually, "They do say that it's the ones who look so respectable on the outside that you have to watch out for."

"Shut up," muttered Sam, clutching the wheel.

"I pass no judgement," Crowley commented, "In fact, I see nothing wrong with a bit of outdoor free love. I remember once, I couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty, and there was this girl named Louise, she was a milkmaid, and we were up on the heathland, and the heather was in flower. It had been quite unseasonably warm, you understand, or we wouldn't have been there at all, but we were young, and Spring was in the air, and…"

"Crowley, I am not interested in any of your Chicks I Have Banged stories, either," snapped Sam.

_I am!_ Dean piped. _Ask him if she was hot!_

"Shut up, Dean," Sam muttered again.

"The most beautiful hair, she had," sighed Crowley. "And the arse of an angel. It was a perfect double handful."

_Round, or heart-shaped?_ demanded Dean.

"And a smile that would make your knees wobble," Crowley reminisced, "And the tits of an Italian statue, seriously, if you saw them today, you wouldn't think they could be real, they were that perfect."

_Ask about her nipples!_ prompted Dean, _Were they perky?_

"And the most amazing, I mean amazing, lips," Crowley smiled to himself, "Made Angelina Jolie look like Voldemort."

_Yeah? What could she do with 'em?_ asked Dean.

"Shut up!" snapped Sam.

"Having a little brotherly tiff?" asked Crowley solicitously.

"No," Sam replied through clenched teeth, "Dean was just wondering if she, uh, was a good kisser."

"A good kisser?" Crowley snorted. "Dear boy, not only was she a wonderful kisser, she had a tongue like an anaconda and she could've sucked a golf ball through a straw…"

Sam was suddenly aware of a disconcerting sensation… down there.

'Huh?" he glanced down. "JESUS CHRIST!" he screeched. "STOP THAT YOU FUCKING PERV!"

_The Living Sex God can't be blamed for reacting like a red-blooded male to the tale of the charms of the beautiful Louise,_ Sam could feel his asshole brother grinning.

"He can when he's doing the reacting with MY BODY!" Sam yelled in a shrill tone. "Knock it off! Oh, that is all kinds of wrong…"

_It sure is, Sammy,_ sighed Dean_, I don't know where I went wrong with you. I mean, look at that thing, with the tentacles, your sense of propriety. Tentacles, bro? I've seen enough hentai to know where that should be going..._

"STOP IT!" howled Sam, "STOP IT!" He tried to think about the time he dropped a bowl of ice-cream in his lap.

_Heh heh, ice-cream, Sammy?_ chuckled Dean. _Kinky. I'm proud of you._

"DEAN!"

_Hey, look, take the exit! Let's go get food!_

"Not yet," growled Sam, "I'm not getting out of the car like… this. If you want to eat, think about, I don't know, cold showers."

"_Funny you should say that,_ his brother's 'voice' was full of grin again, _Because there was this girl, once, in Florida, and we were at the beach, and it was deserted, and we wanted to rinse off the sand, and so we got under one of those beach showers, and you know how cold water is supposed to be, uh, discouraging, well, it was weird, it had the opposite effect on us, it was kind of invigorating, and it segued into Round Two, so we…_

_**If you don't shut the fuck up, right now,**_ Sam thought, _**I will cover your fries with salt.**_

There was an internal silence.

_You're mean,_ murmured Dean in a hurt tone.

_**It could be worse,**_ Sam shrugged mentally, _**Did you know you can make apple and lavender pie?**_

_I hate you._

* * *

We found out why Dean hates lavender so much at the end of 'Hot Stuff'. Meanwhile, *shudder* it's just all quite dreadful, really. Inevitable, perhaps, but quite dreadful nonetheless. Send reviews; I'll be over there, cowering in the corner with Sam's sense of propriety...


	10. Chapter 10

Fanfiction is a great, wide ocean, big enough and with depth enough for all sorts of people to enjoy all sorts of shipping. The little inlet known as Jimiverse Cove is not deep enough to admit the draught of some ships, such as the Good Ship Destiel, or the MV Sabriel, that particularly grubby scow the SS Crobby *shudder* or the battlecruiser Wincest. However, as we paddle about in our little dinghies and rhibs and the occasional pedal-paddler, we are always happy for fans from any other ships to jump in a rowboat, and come and visit us here. (Look out for the Deangirls on the bouncy castle, we told them it's not really seaworthy, but they don't care, they just keep paddling round in circles.) From time to time, we may make pretend cut-outs of your ships, and poke gentle fun at them, but we do not set mines and we do not have cannon. We do not want to sink your ships; whatever floats your boat, as it were.

Just watch out for the stripper pirates.

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

"Ful weel she soong the service dyvyne," recited Sam, "Entuned in hir nose ful seemly…"

_Hey, you missed the exit!_ complained Dean.

"And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly," Sam ignored his brother, "After the scole of Stratford-atte-Bowe, For Frenssh of Parys was to hir unknowe…."

_Stop speaking Klingon, and find food!_ insisted Dean.

"BIjatlh 'e' yImev!" Sam dropped into Klingon to tell his brother to shut up before returning to Middle English. "At mete wel ytaught was she with alle: She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle…"

"Ah, Chaucer," noted Crowley in sudden comprehension. "The Recitation of Faith always did it for me. Even as a fifteen-year-old. Had the same immediate effect as a handful of snow up the kilt."

"…Ne wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depe; Wel koude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe…" intoned Sam.

"Well, that, or picturing Sister Josephus in her birthday suit," added Crowley, "Although frankly I think that woman was probably born wearing a habit. Or at least chain mail underwear. The Credo used to leave me less traumatised, though. We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of all things visible and invisible…"

"That no drope ne fille upon hir brist. In curteisie was set ful muche hir list…"

"Of course, if it was Morag Douglas in her red dress, I'd have to switch to Latin: Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipoténtem, Factórem cæli et terræ, Visibílium ómnium et invisibílium…"

"Hire over-lippe wyped she so clene, That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sene…"

"Et in unum Dóminum Iesum Christum, Fílium Dei Unigénitum, Et ex Patre natum ante ómnia sæcula…"

_What you two freaks are doin' is a crime against masculinity,_ Dean sniffed disdainfully.

"Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte. Ful semely after hir mete she raughte…"

"Deum de Deo, lumen de lúmine, Deum verum de Deo vero…"

_And is probably lowering the amount of testosterone in the world by a criminal amount_, Dean went on.

"And sikerly, she was of greet desport, And ful plesaunt, and amyable of port…"

"Génitum, non factum, consubstantiálem Patri… you know, I never understood the verum/vero bit. 'Very God of very God.' Well, I don't understand a lot of it, but 'Very God of very God'? Isn't that laying it on a bit thick? Can Himself be very God, as opposed to, say, on some days, He's just feeling quite God, or a bit God? Maybe, 'Hey, I'm not feeling very God today, therefore I might just create a new bacterium', or 'Wow, I'm feeling totally God right now, I think I'll create a whole new species of intelligent ape, no, wait, I have a better idea, I'll go and create a new planet, no, no, better than that, I'll go and create a whole new galaxy! Yeah! Who's the Man?' I mean, I have actually met Himself, and I'd hazard a guess that he's pretty damned God all the bloody time…"

_Have I mentioned how much I hate you both?_ grumbled Dean.

Between his recollection of Chaucer, and Crowley's metaphysical musings on the nature of The Almighty, Sam managed to get the body he was currently sharing back to a state where he was not embarrassed to get out of the car, and took the next exit.

"Is this absolutely necessary?" whined Crowley as Sam pulled the Impala into the lot of a diner.

"Yeah, I think it is," he sighed, wincing as another searing hunger pang hit him, making his stomach rumble audibly again. "If we're going to get there without me leaving teethmarks in the dash."

_Way to go Sammy!_ enthused Dean, as Sam patted Jimi, told him to mind the car, and locked the doors, _You are an awesome little brother!_

_**Just let me drive for this, okay? **_Sam stipulated,_** I promise I'll include something that's totally devoid of sensible nutritional value and full of empty calories, saturated fat and refined sugar.**_

_That's my boy._

"Cutlery," crooned Crowley as they took a table, "Actual cutlery. And a napkin." He raised eyes full of gratitude as Sam perused the menu. "I cannot tell you how welcome a change it is to eat with someone who might just know how to use a knife and fork for things other than stabbing opponents."

"Yeah, well, enjoy it while it lasts," muttered Sam, "Because we are gonna get him out of my head and back into his own body just as quickly as…" there was a strange sensation in his head, and what could only be described as an internal snigger. _**Dean, what are you…**_

At the next table, a man wearing a hairpiece seemed oblivious as his extra thatching flapped its edge.

_**Dean!**_ Sam snapped the angry thought at his brother.

_Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig!_ yodelled Dean, _Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig! Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig!_

At the next table, the man's hairpiece flapped again. A small child at another table saw it, and stared, entranced. Crowley groaned.

_**Dean! Stop that!**_ ordered Sam.

The hairpiece lifted, pulled away from the man's scalp, performed a 180-degree rotation, and flopped back down onto his head, making him jump in his seat.

_Oh, wow,_ Dean sounded impressed, _You really got the hardware for this, bro…_

_**What?**_ demanded Sam.

_The hardware, the wiring, the firepower!_ enthused Dean with the sort of eagerness he usually displayed whenever he looked under the hood of a classic car. _This is… Sammy, this is amazing!_

A woman in a business outfit stood at the counter, ordering a coffee. The hem of her skirt began to creep slowly up her legs, as the toupee-next-door flapped again, eliciting a little shriek from its owner, and a giggle from the watching toddler.

_You got the goods, dude._ A soy latte upended itself on the tablet of a man in a suit who was speaking into his cell much too loudly; he let out a yelp, and shot out of his seat.

Crowley looked around. "Sam! Stop him!" he hissed, as a young lady with pneumatic assets squealed and grabbed at the top button of her shirt, which had apparently come undone all by itself.

_**Dean! Knock it off!**_ insisted Sam.

_Seriously, this is great! _Dean practically sang._ I feel like I'm drivin' that Ferrari again!_

"Ferrari?" Sam muttered out loud, bewildered, "I'm a frigging car now?"

Resigned understanding bloomed on Crowley's face. "Ferrari," he sighed, "Yes, Sam, in a manner of speaking, you are. Your brain has been, shall we say, prompted to be, er, adapted to, uh, demonic shenanigans…"

"Demonic shenanigans?" echoed Sam.

"Well, you know," Crowley waved a hand vaguely, "Azazel's 'special children'? See things before they happen? Telekenesis? Fry demons in their own meatsuits? Boy King, leading the armies of Hell to storm the gates of Heaven, and burn them down? That sort of shenanigans." He rolled his eyes as the toupee-next-door did a three-sixty before flopping down onto the head it had been so rudely and unnaturally plucked from. "He's been driving along in his own stock standard model, so to speak, and being enough of a nuisance with that I might add, and now, he's got the keys to something the factory workshop turned out, with twice as many cylinders, and twice as much power."

There was a sudden short scream from the other side of the diner. A young guy in sagging pants, an overlarge shirt and a backward-facing baseball cap shot out of his seat, and limped rapidly for the door.

"What the…?" Sam's eyes followed him.

_Switchblade in his pocket, _Dean chuckled._ He was thinkin' of carvin' his initials on some cars in the lot, on the way out. Nobody's gonna carve their initials on my favourite toy and walk away unscathed._

_**Dean, what did you **__**do**__**?**_ asked Sam.

_Whaddya think?_ scoffed Dean. _ I got in first. I carved my initials on his favourite toy._

"Oh my God," Sam dropped his head into his hands, "Dean, you have to stop this, like, NOW!"

_Just another inch or two…_ Sam felt his eyes drawn to the woman at the counter; she was wiggling, and trying to pull her skirt back down. _ Hey! No fair fixing the skirt!_

_**Dean!**_ Sam put as much force into the thought as he could. _**Enough!**_

_What if I leave the skirt alone, and go for panties instead?_ Dean's grin was palpable.

_**You leave me no choice, bro,**_ warned Sam, casting his mind back to a job they'd once done. Making his brother experience it was drastic, but desperate measures were called for…

_Hey, what's that thing? _Dean wanted to know,_ It looks a bit like, heh heh, it looks a bit like your hentai-propriety._

_**It's a memory, Dean,**_ Sam told him.

_Except… _there was a note of hesitation._ It's… uh, Sam, it's… I think it has sequins on its tentacles…_

_**I'm sorry, bro, **_Sam sighed,_** but this is for your own good.**_

_And it's wearing… oh shit! _Dean sounded panicked,_ Sam! Saaaam! It's got me! It's got meeeeeeeee!..._

The memory wrapped its sequinned tentacles around Dean, and pulled him in, hugging him to its ruffled tutu…

_It had all the hallmarks of an angry spirit, and that's exactly what it was, the restless and murderous ghost of Marlene Fentonworth, a transgender ballerina whose technical mastery of the art form would've gained her a place as a principal dancer in any company, had it not been for the slight technical difficulty of her standing six foot one and weighing in at just under 200 pounds. It had been her audition for Swan Lake that had been her last performance; after being laughed out of the theatre for crushing Siegfried into unconsciousness during her portrayal of Odile, she had gone on a rampage, strangling the director, the stage manager and a couple of stray swans with her tutu before throwing herself from the scaffolding from which Siegfried and Odette would leap at the end of the final act, only before the extensive padding and air mattresses had been placed. A succession of dancers had, after that, danced themselves to death under her malign influence on that stage. Their research had turned up only one possibility for dealing with the problem: they would have to distract the ghost long enough for somebody to get to the tutu, still hanging in the dressing room, and burn it. And it wasn't safe to drag civilians into a Hunt. Which meant, dragging Bobby along to do the salt and burn, whilst they distracted the ghost…_

"_Dean, come on out," snapped Sam, fiddling with the small stereo. "The sooner we do this, the sooner Bobby can kill her off."_

"_I don't wanna do this," came the sad whine from the shadows. "I don't know how to dance!"_

"_Neither do I!" Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation, "We don't have to know how to dance! The whole point is, the stage is cursed, it'll kind of do the dancing for us, we just gotta, you know, be out there and let it happen…"_

"_I got a draft," Dean mumbled._

"_Don't you talk to me about drafts," griped Sam, hitching at the ballet tights again and trying very hard not to think about what he must look like, "You think I like wearing an outfit that's not much more than a lycra condom on each leg?"_

"_Don't you bitch to me about costumes!" snarled Dean, "This is… this is... oh my God this is so humiliating!"_

"_Well they don't make pointe shoes big enough to fit me," Sam said grumpily, "And you definitely could not catch me in a fish dive."_

"_Fish dive?" queried Dean. "I gotta swim too? I can't swim in this, this, this thing!"_

"_It's just a lift, Dean," sighed Sam, hitting 'Play', and taking his place on the stage. "Now come on, we gotta get Marlene's attention."_

_Dean came stomping out of the backstage gloom in a very unballetic fashion. "I hate you," he growled, prowling in the wings like a caged animal, "I hate you so much, words cannot express how much I hate you for this…"_

_The orchestral music swelled and filled the stage._

_Sam saw Dean swallow hard as the strains of the Pas de Deux began: he made a last check of his tiara, bounced on his toes a few times, hitched at his sequinned bodice, made a final adjustment to his glittering black tutu…_

_Then Odile, the Black Swan, made 'her' grand entrance…_

The strange things happening in the diner suddenly stopped. Sam could hear nothing but the inarticulate wailing in the back of his head.

Crowley looked around. "What did you do?" he asked, amazed.

"Tchaikovsky," muttered Sam, "He hates it." He picked up the menu. "So, let's eat."

* * *

Send reviews, because they make the bunny talk and are the Unexpected Stripper Pirates In The Fanfic Of Life!*

*No, I'm not giving you stripperpirates!Winchesters - that wouldn't be unexpected.


	11. Chapter 11

Well, little Fergus the plot bunny has grabbed the talking stick and whacked Ulfric over the head with it, so here's the next chapter he dictated.

The stripperpirate!Winchesters are, of course, from a review-soliciting interlude in 'Somewhere Over The Rainbow', with them et al. performing a song from 'Fanservice - The Musical', the Modern Reigning King Of Hell song. We also had a suggestion of them in the Special Bonus Feature at the end of 'Nun Of That'. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if somewhere out there on the interwebs there are picture of pirate!Winchesters, or even stripperpirate!Winchesters. I've stumbled into enough LJ, Tumblr and deviantART pages to know that there should be another internet rule: If somebody has a kink, then somewhere out there is a picture/story of the Winchesters doing it.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

Sam squelched the small stab of guilt as he listened to his brother doing the equivalent of sniffle.

_That was really mean,_ conveyed Dean, sounding forlorn_. I got so dizzy afterwards; Bobby said I did fifty-two fucky turns…_

_**Fouettes en tournants, **_corrected Sam, looking at the menu._** You asked for it. Just because you can, doesn't mean you should. **_ _**Now, behave.**_

_Order something good?_ Dean sounded more hopeful at the possibility of food.

_**Sure,**_ Sam grinned, _**Hey, look, they do waffle fries as a side – how about I get some of…**_

Of their own accord, his eyes fixed on a box of text halfway down the next page:

THE BURGERWORX!

It was accompanied by a picture of what looked like a football-sized construction of animal protein, with a bun thrown in grudgingly as a sop to any pedants who might suggest that otherwise, it should more accurately be called the PILE OF MEAT AND FAT ON A PLATE.

He felt Dean gasp in awe. _Look at that, Sam,_ his big brother was transfixed, _Look at that, all those patties, all that cheese…_

_**Dean, I'm not getting that,**_ Sam insisted firmly. _**Look at it, it's a heart attack on a plate!**_

…_I'm looking, I'm looking,_ crooned Dean longingly, _All that bacon,_ _all those fries, all those wedges…_

_**Look, it's something for three hundred pound truckers to eat,**_ Sam reasoned, _**To help them on their way to their next bypass surgery. You know that just about every place on a major road has something like it.**_

_Sam,_ Dean's presence growled, _I __need__ that burger._

_**No, Dean,**_ Sam managed to convey the mental equivalent of an eye-roll, _**You want it. Not the same thing. **_

_When I'm talkin' about a burger, it's the same thing,_ Dean's 'voice' was low and menacing. _Order the burger, Sam._

_**No way, jerk,**_ Sam scoffed disdainfully. _**When you're back in your own body, you can put whatever toxic artery-clogging liver-killing crap you like into it…**_

_It wasn't a request, little brother…_

The sound Sam could hear made him wonder if there was a dog somewhere.

"Sam?" Crowley was looking at him, eyes bugging, "Sam, did you… did you just growl at me?"

"No," snapped Sam, "It's Dean, he's bein' a total dick about ordering food…" he felt a strange sensation at the back of his head. "Knock it off," he muttered, "Dean, fucking knock it off, or I'll dredge up the memory of you naked in that lavender field…"

Before he could threaten to go on to the bit where his teenaged big brother had emerged, stark naked, from the lavender field in front of a busload of cheerleaders there was an overwhelming feeling of coldness in his head, and he suddenly pitched forwards.

"Sam!" yelped Crowley, as Sam appeared to be about to faint, "Sam!"

Fortunately, before he broke his nose on the table top, he put out his hands, and caught himself.

"Moose?" pressed Crowley cautiously, "Are you all right?"

Sam Winchester smiled at him hugely, winningly, and his eyes flashed momentarily black.

"Never better, Your Royal Maj," he beamed, gesturing to a waitress in a way that somehow oozed a come-hither sensuality, "And I'm starvin'. Let's order!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam blinked hard, and took in a gasping breath; for a moment there, he thought he'd been about to pass out.

Then he blinked again, and looked around.

He was standing in what looked like a cosy, well-used study. There was a desk piled with books, notepads and esoteric manuscripts. The floor-to-ceiling shelves were stacked with books. There was a comfy-looking chair beside a small but cheerful and welcoming open fire. An unoccupied dog bed sat beside the chair. On a small side table sat a steaming mug of cocoa.

Sam slowly turned in a circle, looking around himself. He immediately recognised where he was. He was inside the study he'd only ever dreamed of. Literally, only ever dreamed of.

Which meant he was inside his own head.

Which meant…

"Fuck."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting down rising anger. "Dean!" he yelled at the top of his voice, "Dean!"

There was no answer, just the quiet crackle of the fire, and the aroma of cocoa.

Don't catastrophise, he instructed himself, Don't catastrophise over this, your brother has temporarily commandeered your body, we're only a few hours away from his, then he'll want to get his own back ASAP. What's the worst that could happen?

Apart from him giving you atherosclerosis and fatty liver disease, and possibly an STI if he stops to bang the police officer who'll pull him over for driving like a lunatic before getting your ass thrown in jail for indecent acts on a public highway with a public official in a very public manner, then zapping himself right out of there and leaving you a police record as a fugitive while he tries to get to Gilette to get his body back and ends up in France, where he'll cause an international incident and get your face onto an Interpol list as well and that's before he even decides to climb the nearest public monument then attempt to talk to the nearest female gendarme, given that the only French Dean knows is 'ménage a trois', 'soixante-neuf' and 'voulez-vous coucher avec moi?'

First things first; he had to find a way of keeping tabs on what Dean was doing. Sam's eye fell on the laptop on the desk. He sat down, and started it up. One of the icons on the desktop was a shortcut to MeTube. It made sense, he thought, in a weird-metaphysical-I'm-trapped-inside-my-own-head kind of way. So he clicked on it, and went to full screen.

Crowley's astonished face peered out of the screen.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Dean?" said Crowley warily, "Dean, are you… are you, er, driving?"

"The one and only," Sam Winchester's face beamed at him in an annoyingly familiar fashion.

His Demonic Majesty leaned forwards and peered into Dean's eyes. "Is he in there, then?" He waved a hand in front of the eyes of The Individual Formerly Known As Sam Winchester. "Sam? Moose? Are you in there, Jolly Green?"

"Yeah," he's in here," Sam!Dean tapped the side of his head.

Crowley raised his voice. "Are you all right in there?" he asked loudly. "Not tripping over things? Got enough lettuce to keep you going?"

Dean angrily swatted Crowley's hand out of the way. "Knock it off!" he snapped. "He's fine!"

"Yes, well, I've been inside your brother's head," sniffed Crowley reproachfully. "I know what it's like. It can be a scary place. So wholesome it could make you start to twitch. You better just hope you don't run into his sense of propriety – it's terrifying, it's huge, and it's all tentacles…"

"He's fine," Dean repeated, "He's got books and stuff in there, he'll be happier in there than havin' to talk to you." The waitress arrived, and he gave her a version of the Killer Smile as she greeted them, then placed his order. "I'll have the Burgerworx, with extra bacon, extra cheese, extra fries, and no salad. How about you?"

"Oh, er," Crowley consulted the menu, "Well, the, er, Eggs Benedict look good…"

"He'll have the same as me," Dean told the waitress, gazing up at her with his brother's hazel eyes.

"Now just a minute," protested Crowley, "There's actual cutlery here, and I'm not going to…"

"Should be ten minutes," the waitress said, not taking her eyes off Dean for a moment. He cranked up the smile a notch, then watched her retreating backside approvingly.

Crowley was not impressed. "I am perfectly capable of deciding what I want to eat," he growled, "If I even want to eat."

"Course you do," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "What's the point of hangin' around up here, Topside, if you don't do the stuff that's fun to do? Like, eating, and driving, and drinking, and having sex…" he paused and peered at Crowley. "When was the last time you had sex?"

"That's irrelevant!" snapped the King of Hell, "What is relevant here is that I don't need you making decisions for me!"

"Isn't that what an evil overlord has minions for?" posed Dean, "You know, underlings to sweat the small stuff, so you can channel all your energy and diabolical genius into the really big, really evil stuff, like, you know, personal aggrandisement, world domination, and new boy bands, bwa-ha-ha?"

"What I do not need," Crowley rumbled in a quietly dangerous voice, "Is some jumped-up smart-arse telling me what to do. I do not need it, and I will not tolerate it." His eyes glowed briefly and faintly red. "Do you understand me, Dean Winchester? I am King of Hell, and you would do well to remember that."

"Whoa, aggro much?" Dean's eyebrows shot up. "That's a lot of tension you're carryin' there. You need to get laid, Crowley."

"What I need," Crowley's eyes pulsed redly, "Is for you to stop behaving like a complete wanker, and recognise that I am older, more powerful, and infinitely more sneaky than you, and I suggest that you don't press your luck, child, because you will come off second best, and I won't even feel the bump."

"Yeah, yeah, you're like Bobby, only with horns and a tail. And a limey accent," acknowledged Dean. "You could probably kill me, Your Hellside Highness, but I do promise you one thing," Sam Winchester's face took on a predatory look, "The last thing I do, with the last passing essence of my being, will be to bury the Blade in your guts." He looked thoughtful. "Or, I could just, you know, burn you right out of that midget meatsuit," he went on. "Seriously, you wouldn't believe the wiring in here." Sam's face suddenly twitched down one side.

"What the hell?" snapped Crowley. "If you break your brother, Bobby will be so angry he'll exorcise you himself!"

"It's okay, I'm just tryin' to work this out." The twitching stopped. "Hey, what does this do?" Sam's eyebrows began to waggle up and down.

"Look, I really don't think that testing your brother's Special Children circuitry in a public place is a good idea," suggested Crowley through clenched teeth.

"There should be a diagram, or something," Sam!Dean muttered. "Mais il n'y a pas rien comme ca ici. Merde. Oh, regardons, qu'est-ce que c'est?"

"The French language module, apparently," humphed Crowley, "Look, Dean, why don't you…"

"Je shr shenma?"

"Mandarin, I think. Now, perhaps you should…"

Kore-wa nan desu ka?"

"Japanese. Dean, I really think…"

"Nuq 'oH Dochvam'e?'

"Klingon, possibly. Or the prelude to throwing up."

"Sum, possum, eo, volo. nolo, malo, fero…"

"That's irregular Latin verbs!" hissed Crowley, "Stop it! Before you hit something that…"

"Hang on, hang on, I'm getting it…"

A sugar bowl two tables away exploded. The small child who'd watched the toupee flapping earlier clapped eagerly.

"Oh, Lucifer's bum," sighed Crowley, peering into the hazel eyes across the table, "Sam, if you're in there, will you please try to do something to put the problem child back into his play-pen?"

"Okay, okay, I got it," Sam's voice held all of Dean's most cocky confidence. "It's just a case of bein' logical, and systematic. That's Sam in a nutshell. Logical and systematic. And girly. So, the neuron's connected to the, uh, other neuron, aaaaaand…"

A vase of plastic flowers on a window sill burst into flame.

"Well done," smirked Crowley tartly, "Burning out artificial floristry – check; burning out demons can only be several dozen IQ points away."

"Shut up," muttered Dean grumpily. "It's not my fault if my little brother's brain is… oh, hey, here's our food!" He immediately went from crestfallen to beaming at the speed of Dean as the waitress put down two large plates piled with enough food of dubious nutritional value to power the entire electricity needs of a small third world nation somewhere for several months. "Thanks, darlin'," he winked at her, smiled winningly, then turned his attention to his plate.

Crowley gazed at him levelly. "Sam, if you are going to do something, I suggest you don't muck around," he intoned, "Otherwise, best just try to hang on to your aorta."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam's eyes bugged as he watched his brother's antics, then saw the gigantic burger meal arrive. He actually let out a little shriek when it loomed large in the screen as Dean bit into it, then wiped frantically at his chin when he felt the ghostly dribble of a phantom trail of grease.

He looked around wildly; he had to do something, and fast, before his brother killed him with cholesterol.

This is your brain, he reminded himself sternly, this is your brain, and you know it better than Dean does. He might know you pretty well, but he doesn't know everything that goes on in here. He eyed the beautiful oak bookcases, the comfortable chair, the cheerful fire. There has to be something in here, he thought, what I need is a distraction, a wedge I can jam into a chink in his armour.

The problem was, demonised Dean didn't seem to have the chinks anymore: the crippling self-doubt, the overwhelming sense of worthlessness, the belief that he was a disappointment to their father, those feelings were just gone. No, he'd have to find something that was still there…

His gaze fell on the laptop. I can get MeTube, he reasoned, which suggests that I've still got some sort of connection with the outside world, and that includes a form of internet connectivity.

An idea came to mind.

He sat down at the desk, closed MeTube so he didn't have to watch the disgusting spectacle of himself eating like a starving hog, and grimly began his search.

* * *

Oh noes! What is Sam going to do to his brother? He was equipped to be the Boy King, so we know he's capable of absolute ruthlessness when it's needed.

Send reviews, because they are the Amazing Custom-Made Desk Piled With An Enormous Assortment Of Matching Stationery Items Including A Big Tin Of Very Good Pencils In The Cosy Study Of Life!

(Yeah, yeah, you like your GWN, I do stationery porn. A chacun son gout.)


	12. Chapter 12

An **author credit**, or at the very least **clairvoyance kudos**, must go to _*****LoraLee2*** **_for figuring out a potential strategy for derailing any attempt to do an autopsy on Dean's body.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

Crowley was not, on the whole, squeamish. Particular, and perhaps fastidious about his suitings, yes, but as someone who had clawed his way up off the rack, out of The Pit, via the crossroads, to crawl over the moaning, bleeding, cursing, mangled carcasses of his opponents, his rivals, or anybody who got between him and his objectives, giving their heads a good kicking on the way, he could not reasonably be called squeamish.

However, looking down at the culinary monstrosity before him, while watching Dean Winchester possess his little brother and eat a gigantic hamburger, was making him feel something that might have skirted around the edges of squeamish, tiptoeing through horrified fascination and leaving footprints in the garden bed of morbid curiosity.

"You know, when I was a lad, this would've fed my family for a week," he commented, picking up his knife and fork and carefully resecting the token bun perched atop the heap of dead animal product, "Assuming that Da didn't sell it off for booze." He poked at the top layer. "And that's what Americans call 'cheese'," he sniffed, "Somebody will be passing through my jurisdiction for telling a whopper that big."

Dean wasn't listening; he just picked his burger up and bit into it with practised ease, making vaguely pornographic noises as he did so. "Ohhhhh, thish ish sho good," he hummed, grease running down his chin, "What are you doing?"

"We are in a diner," Crowley replied, making a careful incision in the heap, "The implication being, it serves food on which we can dine. Ergo, I am working on the generous assumption that, somewhere on this plate, is something edible." A deft flick of the wrist, and a top-patty-ectomy was complete. "All I have to do is find it."

"Try the friesh," Dean demonstrated by picking up several and shoving them into his mouth, "Oh, hey, they're great, the oil has obviously been changed some time in the last calendar year."

"Be still my beating taste buds," muttered Crowley, carefully beginning a bilateral baconectomy. He eyed Dean dubiously. "You know, I never thought of the culinary possibilities that might enhance our protocols in The Pit," he mused, "I can think of certain circumstances where this sort of thing might be just as hideous, if not worse, than some of the tortures the more old-fashioned and uncreative demons favour. I mean, forcing people to drink large quantities of water was a popular method from the Middle Ages; why not update it, and use hamburgers?"

"You can't chorchure people witsh hamburgersh," Dean scoffed around another mouthful.

"Well, you're not doing too bad a job on me right now," Crowley observed in a resigned fashion. "Er, your brother doesn't eat things like that very often, does he?"

"Nope," Dean grinned, "He'sh practically a vegieshaurush. I mean, chicken doeshn't count ash real meat, doesh it? Courshe not."

"Well, the reason I mention it," Crowley continued, "Is that, er, well, enthusiastic consumption of what I can only describe as junk food might be a bit, shall we say, overwhelming to a digestion unaccustomed to consuming vast quantities of what was probably technically an animal at some point."

"Nah, thish ish doin' him a favour," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "He needsh the protein. And the iron. And the Vitamin Meat. I mean look at the shize of him! How doesh a guy that big shurvive on rabbit food and girly drinksh?"

"It was just a thought," shrugged Crowley, tentatively biting into a fry. "Oh, they're not bad, are they? Quite tasty." He contemplated the deep-fried potato chunk. "The seasoning is very moreish. I wonder what they put on them? Salt, a bit of rosemary, a sprinkling of methadone?"

"It'sh all good," smiled Dean, taking another huge bit out of his burger.

"I've seen werewolves eat more tidily than this," Crowley reproached him.

"I've killed werewolves more tidily than this," agreed Dean happily, taking another bite.

"Could you at least chew with your mouth shut? Oh, my mistake, you're not actually chewing, silly me."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

_This is my body,_ Sam told himself as he typed, _This is my body, and he has no right to take over like this. Especially if he's going to stuff it with crap like that._

With a wince, he looked through the search results list.

He was pretty sure he could make this work. He'd done plenty of speaking on his feet, debating, and Toastmasters at school and then at college – he'd been preparing to study Law, after all – and Sam Winchester was entirely capable of taking control of a conversation or and discussion. So, all he had to do was wait until Dean was distracted enough, and take control of his speech.

Trying not to look at the screen, he clicked on a link, then on another, until he found what he needed.

_I'm sorry, bro,_ he thought as he opened the file, _This is goin' to hurt me just as much as it hurts you. Well, actually, maybe not quite as much, but yeah, this'll hurt. For which I will make you pay. With interest._

He drew a deep breath, and reminded himself that he was a Hunter, and sometimes desperate situations required desperate acts.

Sam opened the document, and waited for his chance, watching the footage of what was happening on MeTube.

His big brother would order pie. Dean always ordered pie. And then, he would savour it, and at the same time he would probably take the time to appreciate the retreating waitress's backside…

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Crowley watched Dean make his way through the Burgerworx, picking at his own surprisingly tasty fries and speculating idly on the nature of the opioid derivative that had obviously been used to season them.

"Don't forget to leave room for pie!" trilled Dean, spitting out a slice of pickle and licking his fingers.

Crowley gazed levelly at him. "You cannot possibly be thinking of trying to fit in a slice of pie after you eat… that," he stated flatly.

"There's always room for pie!" stated Dean, as if that was one of the immutable laws of the universe.

"We are supposed to be making our way to Gilette with all speed," Crowley reminded him.

"There's always time for pie," Dean recited the Second Law of Deanamics confidently, giving the waitress a come-hither smile.

"Of course," Crowley rolled his eyes, "I should've known."

As Dean made his way through a large chunk of peach pie (with cream and ice cream), Crowley spoke. "So, I've been thinking, in order to get hold of your body ASAP, and before some nosy pathologist gets hold of it and starts trying to find out why you apparently dropped dead, we need a cover story. I suggest that we go with belonging to a sect of Judaism that has a strict prohibition on the performing of autopsies without clear suggestion that some crime has been committed. We can say that you had a pre-existing heart condition, or something. It might be an idea to consult Moose, get him to come up with a disease that sounds suitable unexpectedly-sudden-death-inducing. However," his face blanched, 'If that's the approach we go with, I have to ask you what, I'm afraid, is a rather personal question. Under any other circumstances it would be the last thing I'd ever want to ask you, except perhaps for participation in some depraved carnal cavorting of a perverted nature with a number of barely-legal nubile young women…"

'You flirt," Dean dragged his eyes away from the waitress and waggled his eyebrows.

"Do stop that," sighed Crowley. "What I'm getting at is, if you're supposed to be Jewish, then there is a certain something, or should I say, the lack of a certain something, that will be expected, and, since your 'corpse' will already have been outwardly inspected by the pathologist, if that certain something is _not_ lacking, then the story will not hold, and we should think of something else…"

"_As he stared into those eyes, he realised that he'd never notice how blue they actually were_," said Dean, apparently enjoying his pie.

"…Because… what?" Crowley stopped, and blinked. "Did... did you just say something about blue eyes?"

"Huh?" Dean looked up. "I'm just eating my pie, and listenin' to you ramble on about how _He raised a shaking hand to the shorter man's cheek_," he said. There was a delay of three seconds, then he stopped chewing and looked confused.

Crowley's eyes bugged. "What?" he whatted again. "Cheek?" His hand went slowly to his own face. "Do I have something on my face?"

"Uh, not that I can see," said Dean warily, "But _Tentatively, he ran his thumb across the quavering lower lip_…"

The next mouthful of pie fell from the spoon he was holding.

"…_And wondered, almost laughing to himself, why he'd never realised just how, well, kissable that mouth looked_…"

Dean dropped his spoon.

Crowley's expression became one of horror. "Dean, that crack about depraved carnal cavorting was a joke, intended to convey just how much I didn't not want to ask you whether you are…"

"…I know that, asshat, _Because usually, he never got past the tousled hair_," Dean continued, his own eyes bugging in astonishment, "_The tie that was never straight, and that tousled, untidy hair, but now he looked into those eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, terrified and exhilarated at the idea that he might see his own yearning thoughts reflected back_…"

Crowley's face relaxed, and his eyes first narrowed, then crinkled into a smile. "Oh, dear," he murmured. "Oh dear me."

"_He was suddenly overcome with the desire to knot a fist into that hair_," Dean quavered.

"I think you might've annoyed somebody," grinned Crowley.

"_But settled instead for stepping closer, and pushing that ratty tan trench-coat off the other man's unresisting shoulders_," Dean's voice rose an octave, and he clapped his hands over his mouth.

"Well played, Bullwinkle, well played," chortled Crowley, "I'll just call for the bill, shall I?"

Dean's arms suddenly clamped themselves to his hijacked Sam-suit's sides. "_Moving slowly, because he feared that if he moved to quickly, he would frighten both of them into flight_…!" he squeaked as the waitress arrived.

"So, how was everything?" she asked politely.

"Just wonderful," beamed Crowley. "Dean enjoyed his meal so much. It just does my heart good to see him so happy."

"_He whispered, 'I just want you to be happy', his voice catching_!" Dean trilled desperately.

"Oh, er, really?" The waitress gave him a confused look.

" '_You have given up so much for me,' he said, the tone low and pleading_!" Dean's face was a rictus of agony, " _'Please, just this once, let me make you happy'_!"

"Don't mind him," Crowley smiled indulgently, "He doesn't get out much, and doesn't interact very gracefully with the opposite sex. You know what these intellectual types can be like. It's concentrated 'Big Bang Theory', just add social ineptitude and stir briskly. It's his way of letting you know that he thinks you are an attractive woman."

"Oh, well, thank you," she smiled uncertainly and backed away casually.

"_Closing the space between them, he walked forward until the fallen angel's legs hit the end of the bed_!" Dean moaned as if in pain.

"I'll just get this, shall I?" Crowley tossed some bills onto the table.

Dean put his Samsuit's hands around the neck. "_Hesitantly, he leaned in, barely daring to breathe_!" His hands tightened around his own neck. "_It was the barest brush of his lips at first_!"

"I'll leave a tip," Crowley fished in his pocket for another bill, "You can't strangle yourself, Dean, you're a demon. You don't actually have to breathe."

"_His breath caught in surprise when he felt the hand snake around his neck, and tangle in his hair_!" screeched Dean, jumping up as people turned to look at him. "_A low, needy moan started deep in his throat_!" He looked around desperately, and picked up a knife from another table.

"We'll just be going now," Crowley tweeted brightly at the other patrons, "Toodle bye! Come along Dean." He took Dean firmly by the elbow and steered him out of the diner.

"_The kiss deepened as he felt the hand, tentatively at first, slide down his neck_!" Dean wailed.

"Dean, even you cannot cut your own throat with a butter knife," tutted Crowley, "Besides which, if you do that to your brother's meatsuit, Bobby will personally exorcise you with extreme prejudice."

"_The touch moved down his back_," Dean dropped the knife, and started to bang his head against the roof of his car.

"To say nothing of what Bullwinkle will do, if you damage that fine piece of all-American manflesh," Crowley went on.

Dean picked up the knife again, and appeared to be considering poking out Sam's eardrums with it. "_It was light, and uncertain, until he gasped in surprise when it moved lower and firmly grabbed his a_- AAAAAAARGH!"

"I mean, I think he's demonstrated a willingness to pull out all the stops as he deems necessary," Crowley reminded him ominously.

Dean collapsed to his knees in the lot, not willing to surrender. " _'I have loved you since the moment I laid eyes on your beautiful soul', Cas rasped, the gravelly voice in his ear making his knees go weak'_," he moaned, clutching his head, " _'And I have never dared to allow myself to dream that you might love me back'_…"

Crowley pushed up one sleeve to consult his expensive watch.

"_With that, he pulled backwards to topple them both onto the bed_!" howled Dean in anguish, "_The kiss became crushing, and Dean felt himself growing immediately and helplessly har_-AAAIIIEEEEEEE!"

Crowley watched the second hand tick around.

"_As their tongues tangled, hetoreatCastiel'sshirtthenpausedtopullhisownoverhishead_ OHGODOHGOD MAKE IT STOOOOOP!"

"Three, two, one…"

Dean let out a last strangled sound of agony, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the ground.

Crowley waited until he roused, sat up, shook his head, and carefully got to his feet.

"So, ready to get going?" he asked with a pleasant smile.

"Yeah, and not before time," grumbled Sam, reaching for the keys and opening the driver's door. "And if the coroner hasn't started on his body, I may just tear him a new one with my bare hands."

* * *

Sam Winchester: he is prepared to make the tough decisions.

Feed reviews to the plot bunny, because Reviews are the Delicious Fries Obviously Laced With Some Addictive Substance On The Side Of The Plate Of Life!

And if somebody would just give the Destiel fans a bit of help, they appear to have beached their dinghy on StripperPirate Island and could be in need of assistance. Unless they've done it on purpose. At the very least, please give them a thermos of chamomile tea to calm them down.


	13. Chapter 13

Now, now, everybody play nice; the only rule we have here in the Jimiverse is that, no matter what ships we sail on (or if we don't ship at all, and prefer to paddle about on our inflatable mattresses), we come here for the fun, not for any arguments. Okay, two rules: 1) Play nice, and 2) Don't touch The Driver of Das Bus. So, let's all head over to Crack Island, for water balloon fights, bouncy castle silliness, transmission fluid checking and chocolate chip cookies afterwards. The Jimiverse is a broad church, and everybody is welcome.

Except for That Gamble Woman. She is NOT invited. If she ever shows up, you may pelt her with big stinky pieces of Crobby until she cries.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

"So, problem puppy back in his kennel?" asked Crowley brightly from the back seat.

"Yeah," replied Sam, consulting inwardly. The soft snuffling sobs had subsided, but the inner silence indicated that Dean had moved on from snuffling to sulking. _You didn't have to go straight for the tactical nuke option_, came the disconsolate thought.

_**Yeah I did**_, Sam countered, _**You don't do subtlety. Now, behave yourself, or the next one will be a fusion device.**_

"I have not ever considered the possibilities of bad fan fiction as a tool of The Pit," remarked the King of Hell, "Although given the effect it had on Dean, I begin to see a whole vista of possibilities opening up."

"That was tame," Sam informed him. "I had to pick one that I could read myself without passing out or throwing up. And even then, it was a gamble that Dean would run for it before it got to the part where they…." he paused, and swallowed. "And there's much worse out there. And some of them draw… pictures."

Crowley's eyebrows shot up. "Pictures?" he echoed. "Of… and… with… doing… really?"

"Anyway," Sam continued, keen to change the subject, "I think your idea is a good one. About Dean being a Jewish man with a pre-existing heart condition. And yes," he rolled his eyes, "The required, uh, customisation has been made to the meatsuit."

"Well, all we have to do is get you – and him – past the wards," noted Crowley. "Then we reclaim his body, wrap him up, and spirit him away for burial as quickly as possible."

"Don't tempt me," growled Sam.

The rest of the trip went more smoothly, with Dean sulking and not interfering with the radio. They arrived at the Sheriff's office in Gilette in the late afternoon.

"That's some impressive historical architecture," noted Crowley, taking in the building that was for the main part two hundred years old. "Not that Dean would appreciate it."

"Can you tell what's keeping him out?" asked Sam.

Crowley walked slowly across the parking lot, staring at the building. "Well, well, well," he mused. "This was done by somebody who knew what they were doing. You don't get craftsmanship like that these days."

"What?" demanded Sam.

"The building is warded," Crowley confirmed, "But it's how it's done that's impressive. It's integrated into the structure of the façade. All the windows, the doors, there's salt stone in the brickwork. That," he pointed to the impressive flagstones before the front door, "Is laid on top of a slab of salt that's almost entirely a single piece." He squinted. "Do you know, I think there might even have been holy water added to the mortar? This is a masterpiece."

"Yeah, but how do we get him in?" pressed Sam.

"I think that, with the same charm Bobby uses for me, it won't be a problem," Crowley replied. "But I'm not surprised the novice couldn't find a way in. I think it would take me a lot of time and effort. Thank Craig that so few people ever took, or take, this sort of thing seriously." He grinned. "I mean, if the Capitol, the Kremlin, The People's Great Hall, Westminster, or the Sydney Opera House had been warded this carefully, my job would be so much more difficult."

"What?" Sam gaped at him. "The Sydney Opera House? Why there? The Australian parliament meets in Canberra!"

"Oh, we've been able to go anywhere Down Under for two hundred years, ever since the whitefellas arrived and stuffed up the Clever Men's singing," Crowley waved, "I like to go to the Opera House and mess with the acoustics, just for fun. Don't look at me like that – it's actually a public service I'm doing. My efforts have kept a cohort of acoustic architects and engineers gainfully employed for decades!"

"Great," muttered Sam, "We thought it was just people who were nuts. The demons are all crazy, too. Fuck our life." He took hold of the small talisman in his pocket. "Come on, let's go invite ourselves in."

There was a strange sensation of walking into a room full of invisible molasses, and a salty tang in his mouth, but the Admit One Crowley ticket worked enough to let them into the building, where Sam identified himself to the receptionist, who gave him a sympathetic smile. Shortly afterwards, a tired woman in a white coat came to speak to them.

"Mr Winchester," she greeted him, "I'm Madeleine Rossi, I'm a pathologist working for the coroner's office here." She turned to Crowley, who gave her a brave, heartbroken smile.

"Reuven," he quavered, "Reuven McLeod. I'm Dean's uncle." His bottom lip wibbled.

"Now, I believe you spoke to Diana earlier, and she explained the situation to you?" the pathologist went on.

"Yes," Sam replied, letting the slightest tremor find its way into his voice, "She said you think you've found…"

"You've found our boy," Crowley moaned, beating his own breast in distress, "She said you'd found our boy, and he's, he's dead, oy vey, our boy…"

"That's what we have to establish, Mr McLeod," Dr Rossi said in a compassionate tone, "This has to be difficult for you, but we really do need somebody to identify him, and family is usually the best source of information."

"He has a tattoo," Crowley went on, tearing up, "Right here, and a silver ring on his right hand, please tell me it's not him…"

"We have to do this… Fet Fergus," said Sam resolutely, putting a hand on Crowley's shoulder. "For Dean."

Crowley looked up at him, and nodded." "You're right, bubala," he sighed heavily. "Please lead the way, Dr Rossi."

They sat in a small, cosy waiting room, presumably while Dean's mortal remains were retrieved from cold storage. "You sound like an Afrikaaner!" Sam hissed. "Reuven McLeod? What the hell kind of name is that?"

"There are Jewish people in Scotland," retorted Crowley, "Are you ridiculing Jews who happen to be Scots? Or Scots who happen to be Jewish? You bigot. You double bigot!"

"But you're _not_ Jewish!" Sam protested. "You never _were _Jewish! You were Catholic!"

"But we might've been," Crowley countered. "Both of us. If it wasn't for Jesus."

Sam's mind boggled momentarily as it grappled with the convoluted logic of that.

"Anyway," Crowley continued, "I have to be convincing, because if we don't pull this off, Bobby will never speak to me again. And he'll shoot me with his latest anti-demon ammo."

"You are doing the most offensively stereotyped portrayal of a Jewish man since Fagin in _Oliver Twist_!" insisted Sam.

_And being about as convincing as_ _Keanu Reeves pretending to be an actor_, observed Dean.

"Well, you look about as Jewish as a pork chop," Crowley snapped. "If you're going to grow your hair long like that, it's only supposed to grow long on the sides, not all over. We'll have to make up some story about you running off with a gentile girl who taught you bad habits, or something."

Sam gritted his teeth and prayed for patience. "You'll have to check that Dean's body is still, uh, demon-compatible, I guess," he muttered. "Having been in this warded building for so long. It feels weird in here, like walking underwater, and I can taste salt; we might have to do some sort of ritual to make it suitable for him to reinstall himself."

"I'll have a look when we get there," Crowley growled, as they heard Dr Rossi's footsteps returning, "Now, show some compassion for a grieving uncle who's just lost his favourite nephew."

_I'm his favourite! I'm his favourite!_ crowed Dean.

_**Shut up, jerk.**_

The sight of his brother's apparently lifeless body sent a shudder through Sam that was not entirely feigned.

"Are you ready?" asked Dr Rossi. He nodded, and she carefully folded back the startlingly white drape to reveal Dean's features.

_Damn, that's a seriously handsome corpse,_ chortled Dean. _Well, go on, Sammy, show her how upset you are! Let's see those puppy dog eyes brimming! You need some help?_

_**Stop it!**_ demanded Sam, as Dean poked at his lachrymal ducts from the inside. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and he nodded. "That's… it's Dean," he said, his voice hitching, "It's Dean, my brother…"

Beside him, there was a wailing like a police siren on a failing battery, and Crowley burst into noisy tears.

"It's him! It's him!" he sobbed, reaching down to take Dean's face in his hands, "It's Dean, oh, my boy, my boy, my poor darling boy, what were you doing, bubala…" he swayed a few times, like a Jewish man praying, then moaned and fell forwards to bury his face in Dean's chest and cry in a very loud, very damp, and very public manner.

"Please, Fet Fergus," Sam began, but Crowley just shrugged him off, and howled inconsolably. "He was, uh," he gave Dr Rossi a small smile, "He and Dean were very close."

"It's all right," she smiled, "All sorts of reactions are perfectly normal in the face of bereavement. The experience is different for everybody. Now, under the circumstances, with an unexplained death like this, it is usual to do an autopsy…"

"I forbid it! It is forbidden!" wailed Crowley between sobs, "It was his heart. We always told him, remember your condition, Dean, but he loved life, this beautiful boy, oy, he loved life, and he wouldn't give up his bungee jumping…"

"He had a congenital defect," Sam explained.

"… Or his BASE jumping," Crowley howled in distress.

"Some sort of intermittent AV block," continued Sam.

"… Or his motor racing…"

"His cardiologist could never quite pin it down."

"…Or his free-climbing…"

"He suggested a precautionary pacemaker, at one stage."

"…Or his hang-gliding…"

"But Dean didn't want to do that."

"…Or his cave diving…"

"He always thought that when his time came, it would just be the right time."

"…Or his ironing…"

"Ironing?" Dr Rossi broke into Crowley's monologue of misery. "Ironing? As in, ironing clothes?"

"Extreme ironing," sniffled Crowley. "He could press a business shirt with set-in sleeves dangling upside-down from an overhang in a blizzard. He was just that talented. Oh, and his herpetology, those taipans are like his children, he doted on them, what will become of his poor, orphaned _Oxyuranus_? He raised them all from hatchlings …"

"Mr Winchester, Mr McLeod, I'm so sorry for your loss," Dr Rossi resumed, "But if you're absolutely certain that this is Dean, and that you want an exemption from autopsy on religious grounds, then we can begin the paperwork." They nodded, Sam wiping at his eyes whilst Crowley blew his nose extravagantly on a silk handkerchief. "All right, please come this way."

"So, what state is he in?" murmured Sam back at the cosy room, as the pathologist left to fetch the forms.

"He's perfectly habitable," Crowley muttered back, making to dab at his eyes, then seeing the state of his handkerchief and thinking better of it. "Which is something of a shame, because he seems to be so much more bearable when he's got the threat of dreadful prose hanging over his head."

"Okay, Operation Dean Retrieval, Stage One is complete," noted Sam, "So, next we get his body released. I'll ask the doctor about a suitable funeral home, then we'll organise transport back to Sioux Falls immediately, and he can probably get back into his own skin sometime tomorrow. Hear that, Dean? You'll have your own meatsuit back tomorrow, bro." There was a curious silence from within. "Dean? Dean? Come on, you can't still be sulking…"

But he wasn't sulking. With a growing uneasiness, Sam poked around in his own head, but found only his own thoughts.

"Shit!" he yipped. "He's gone!"

"What?" Crowley did a double take. "Did you just say, he's gone?"

"Yes!" snapped Sam, "Dean is gone! Dean is no longer in my head! Dean has left the building!"

"Well, that's unlikely," Crowley looked around. "He won't have gone far. No, he's definitely still in the building."

"If he jumps into that receptionist," growled Sam, recalling the young lady's pretty face and buxom figure, "And attempts to have sex with himself, I will end him…."

"Here we are," Dr Rossi returned with a sheaf of paper, and Sam quickly plastered a desperate smile on his face. "Now, if you can just fill in as much of the detail as you can, we'll be able to find the rest of it in the syste-" her voice broke off, and she stared past them, mouth agape.

"Er, Dr Rossi?" said Sam tentatively, "Is something wrong?"

"You're not messing with time, are you, Moose?" asked Crowley, waving a hand in front of the frozen woman's eyes, "Because I certainly can't do that…"

There was a terrible moment of anticipation, and they both turned to look towards the door.

"Hey, Sam! Shalom, Fet Fergus! Hey, do you think I could get a pair of pants? I'm cool with the whole sheet-toga thing, but it's kinda drafty."

* * *

Extreme ironing. It's real. Not really my idea of fun - I hate ironing.

Send reviews, because they are The Extreme Sport Of Your Choice On The Weekend Of Life! (What's your preferred 'extreme sport'? I think I'd like extreme bikkie eating, such as eating TimTams out the front of a WeightWatchers meeting, for example.)


	14. Chapter 14

And another_** ***author credit*****_ goes to **LeeMarieJack**, for making such a good suggestion as to what poor Dr Rossi might do with her life now...

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

It was with an inward sigh of resignation that Sam reflected that, on the whole, the situation might have been foreseeable, given Dean's complete lack of tolerance for delayed gratification before he was ever demonified.

With a wail of joy, Crowley threw himself at Dean, and clutched the taller man to his avuncular breast, rocking him and crying and mumbling in what was presumably supposed to sound like Yiddish, and thanking God for the miracle that had sent his beloved nephew back from the very clutches of the Angel of Death.

"Fet," Dean had whined like an embarrassed child, "It's okay, Fet, really, Fe-e-e-e-e-e-t."

Dr Rossi sat, frozen, the documents spilling from her hands, and stared. "Meeeep," she went.

Sam sprang to his feet, and launched himself at his brother. "Dean!' he howled, his wailing mixing with that of his 'Uncle Fergus', "Dean! You're alive! You're alive! Oh, you're aliiiiiiiiiive…"

"Sure I am, Sammy," Dean beamed, clutching at his sheet as he was squished into the most unlikely group hug, "I, uh, think I might've had one of my, you know, episodes."

"We thought you were deeeeeeead!" wailed Crowley.

"We did! We did! We thought you were deeeeeead!" added Sam.

"Meeeeep," went Dr Rossi, as one of the morgue attendants came to see what the noise was about. He took one look at Dean, and then he went 'Meeeeeep' too.

"Look, this is really touching, guys," Dean muttered softly, "And if you were a couple of hot women, I might enjoy it, but…"

"Shut up!" hissed Sam, _sotto voce_, "Thanks to you, we now have to explain you rising from the dead!"

"Wouldn't be the first time," grinned Dean. "Hey, watch the hands, dude."

"Believe me, I am not enjoying this ghastly display of family feeling any more than you are," grumbled Crowley, "I wouldn't hug my own family like this. Not unless it was in order to get a knife between somebody's shoulder blades…"

"So you will shut up and tolerate this ludicrous show of unconditional love, and you will act as though you like it," Sam growled.

"Hey, that Dr Rossi is kind of hot," commented Dean, "You think maybe we could ask her to join us?"

With a small noise of disgust, Sam let go of his brother, and made a show of wiping his eyes, as Crowley honked extravagantly into his much-abused handkerchief.

"Meeeeep," went Dr Rossi.

Dean sniffed at himself. "Hey, you think I could get a shower?" he asked the attendant, "I smell of disinfectant. And I'm kinda cold."

The open-mouthed man pointed down the corridor.

"Great!" Dean gave them a beam smile. "Hey, see if you can find my clothes, Sam," he said cheerfully, before disappearing.

"Wait!" called Dr Rossi, her paralysis breaking, "Wait! He's… you're… he's…" She subsided into utter bewilderment again. "But… he was dead, he was dead, he was definitely dead…"

Crowley sat down opposite the pathologist, radiating gentle reassurance. "My dear lady, I am as astonished as you are," the demon beamed at Dr Rossi, "And I'm sure that Sam would tell you that there is no doubt a perfectly rational explanation for this…"

"What? Oh, uh, yeah, well, you'd know," Sam stammered, "There are documented cases where, um, individuals who are suffering from, uh, hypothermia, can appear to be, well, to all intents and purposes, you know, dead, as in, not alive. Um."

"Hypothermia?" she echoed faintly.

"It's kinda cold out there today," Sam nodded vigorously, "And given his heart condition, maybe he just kind of, you know, went into a sort of, uh, suspended animation for a bit."

"Suspended animation?" Dr Rossi repeated. "The cessation of apparent life signs in response to a cardiac incident, with vital organs and brain function being preserved due to lowered core temperature…"

"Yes! Yes!" trilled Sam eagerly, "Just like that!"

"But he was _dead_," she insisted, a small note of hysteria creeping into her voice. "I checked, I _checked_, I _certified_ him, that's my job, he was dead, he was really _dead_…"

"And now, he isn't," Crowley cut in smoothly. My dear doctor, I have faith that in this world, there are some things that science alone cannot explain." He took her shaking hands in his own. "Perhaps you just made a mistake; after all, you are only human, nu? Perhaps one day, medicine will find an explanation. But does it really matter? The important thing is, my dear, dear nephew is alive…"

Sam watched as Crowley reassured the utterly bewildered pathologist. He found that he was not at all astonished that the demon had risen to King of the Crossroads before establishing himself as King of Hell. He could make an eternity in Hell sound worthwhile, so it was probably no challenge at all to reassure a woman who was suddenly questioning her professional competence, her own eyes, and her very sanity. Selling ice to Eskimos would be a waste of Crowley's talents; he could sell Slayer albums to the Moral Majority, or Village People concert tickets to the Westboro Baptist congregation.

"You must not berate yourself like this, dear lady," he insisted as Dr Rossi had some sort of professional, existential, anatomical and possibly geometrical crisis, "Just be grateful that your case load has suddenly become lighter! Or, if you are insistent that you find another career, did you do your own nails? Yes? You have such beautiful hands, my dear, I'm sure you would find a calling as a manicurist…"

Sam left the impromptu therapy session to head for the morgue and find Dean's clothes, then followed the sound of cheerful and off-key singing to the staff bathroom, knocking on the cubicle door.

"I'll leave your stuff here," Sam told his brother.

"Thanks, Sam," called Dean as the water shut off. "Hey, see if you could find me another towel will you, this one is pretty damned small, and…" there was a sudden shriek from the cubicle.

"Dean!" Gun in hand, Sam put his shoulder to the door and broke the lock.

Dean was standing, thankfully wearing a towel, and staring in horror at a small mark below his ribs. "She cut me open!" he shrieked in horror and indignation, "She cut me open! That woman cut me open!"

"What?" Sam lowered his gun, and peered at his brother's torso. On his right side was what appeared to be a small nick.

"Look!" Dean squawked, "She cut me open! That pathologist woman sliced me open!"

"Dean, it's barely a quarter of an inch long," Sam rolled his eyes, "It hardly counts as 'cutting you open'."

"It totally does!" protested Dean, "She totally sliced and diced me, for no reason at all!"

"Dean, stop ranting!" snapped Sam, giving his brother a hefty _Bitchface_ #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?). "Look, she's a pathologist, you're a, a, a, you were a corpse! Anyway, it's tiny. Jesus, you've had fuglies try to tear your limbs off, and you're worried about a little cut?"

"Why did she do that?" Dean wailed, "Why would anybody do that?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe, because it's her job?" Sam rolled his eyes. "In order to establish a time of death, she'd have wanted to take your liver temperature, that's all, it won't even need…"

"My liver?" Dean's eyes bugged in horror, "She… she poked a hole in my liver?"

Sam scowled. "It's the most reliable way to establish the core temperature after death, in order to…"

"She poked a hole in my liverrrrrr!" Dean shrieked. "You can't do that! My liver is the third hardest working organ in my body! I need it!"

"Third hardest working?" queried Sam dubiously.

"After my dick and my tongue, obviously," replied Dean.

"Well, your brain certainly isn't even in the top ten," Sam opined trenchantly.

"But seriously, what kind of weirdo goes around cuttin' holes in a guy, then pokin' holes in his liver?"

"A pathologist confronted with a dead body, that's who!"

"It's gross!"

"She thought you were dead!"

"I wasn't dead, I just… popped out."

"Out? Out? Dean, people 'pop out' of their houses, to go to the store, to go post mail, to go return a measuring cup to a neighbour – they do _not_ 'pop out' of their bodies to go steal cowboy boots!"

"Don't you dare drag my boots into it! This is all your fault!"

"It's… _what_?" Sam stared at his brother, his face becoming angry. "My fault?! _My_ fault?! You're the one who couldn't wait until we had custody of your meatsuit again before you jumped back into it and ruined a perfectly good plan!"

"I had to get out of there," muttered Dean, "Between you, and your memories with sequins, and your hentai-propriety, and your disgusting taste in disgustingly badly written disgusting fan fiction that's just disgusting, I had to get out!"

Muttering something about wondering whether killing a big brother who'd already been certified as dead counted as murder, Sam found another towel in a nearby cupboard, and threw it at Dean. "Get dressed," he growled, "Then come out, and thank the pathologist for her professionalism, and be grateful that's all I did."

"She cut a hole in me," whined Dean.

"If you do not get with the program, so we can extract ourselves from this mess, I'll do worse than that."

"Ooooooh, I'm so scared," snarked Dean sarcastically.

Sam fixed his brother with a stony stare. "Dean, I mean it." He brandished his phone, and went for the multi-megaton fusion device. "I will call Becky, put her on speaker, and ask her to read a chapter from her latest work. And we'll see who pukes first."

Dean gaped in horror at his brother, then wilted under the searing power of the Bitchface #14™ (There Are Times When Your Behaviour Is So Reckless I Wonder If You Took Lessons As A Small Child).

"You're mean," he said in a small voice. But, never one to be down for too long, he brightened. "That pathologist really is kind of hot, though. And she's already had her hands all over the merchandise, so to speak, so do you think if I asked for her number, we could hang around for a few hours, and…"

"I'm dialling! I'm dialling!"

"Bitch."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Leaving Dr Rossi contemplating a change of career, the brothers Winchester, plus their dog, plus one very annoyed demon, hit the road to head back to Sioux Falls.

"I'm hungry," complained Dean, "All that bein' dead really takes it out of a guy. Look out for somewhere we can get chow, Sam.'

"I refuse to eat at the same table as you," snapped Crowley from where he was crammed up against the back door, trying to get as far away from Jimi as possible. "I refuse to eat in the same room as you. In the same building as you. In the same town as you. In fact, I refuse to eat in the same country as you. Give my regards to Bobby."

"Hey, where are you goin'?" asked Dean.

"France," muttered the King of Hell before disappearing. Jimi let out a contented humph, and stretched out across the entire back seat.

"Well, I'm sure we can manage without 'Uncle Fergus'," said Dean. "We can stop somewhere to eat, then Baby will get us back to Bobby's."

"Sure, Dean," yawned Sam, too tired to argue with his brother.

"Am I keepin' you awake, bro?" grinned Dean.

"Yeah," replied Sam, "It was a long drive, and maybe you don't need to sleep, but I'm wrecked."

"Well, you can nap," Dean told him, "I'll find a drive-through or something."

"Okay," Sam slumped against the passenger door, his eyes sliding closed. "Oh, and Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I expressly forbid you to possess me ever again."

"Well, no problemo, now the Living Sex God has his own awesome self back," grinned Dean, "In fact, I think I should probably celebrate by sharing that awesomeness with the female population. I did hook up with a pathologist, when we were workin' that case in Maine, remember the one where the bodies were turnin' up with their hearts gone? Well, you spent so much time at the library, so she and I, well, let me just tell you that pathologists have to know how to do all sorts of interesting examinations, even on dead people, and…"

A soft snore indicated that Sam was asleep.

"Huh, figures," Dean muttered, "The minute I try to educate him, he goes to sleep. He's ungrateful, you know that?" he said to the dog in the back seat.

The sound of a snuffling snore indicated that Jimi was asleep too.

"Pair of lightweights," sighed Dean.

He drove into the night, just enjoying the feel of his Baby rumbling over the tar, eating up the miles, the engine purring, the feel of her coming to him through the wheel, his number one girl ticking over just as she should, when suddenly…

"What the…?" Dean sniffed, and screwed up his face. A terrible smell wafted to his nose. He flapped a hand, but the smell became stronger. "Oh, Jesus H. Christ, Baby is something wrong? Is something burning?"

He checked the gauges on the dash, and assured himself that nothing was amiss. Carefully, he manoeuvred so as to check the soles of his boots. "It's not you is it, Jimi?" he said to the dog, "You're not snorin' dog breath at me, are ya, because seriously, we're talkin' the stench of Hell, here…"

Sam snuffled in his sleep, shifted slighty, and another wave of smell rolled over Dean.

"Huh? Oh, gross!" He reached across and poked Sam's shoulder. "Stop it! Stop it, you disgusting thing!"

"Hrmph? Wha'?" muttered Sam sleepily. "Dea'? What?"

"Stop it!" Dean insisted. "Stop doing that!"

"Doing what?" Sam yawned, struggling towards wakefulness. He stretched his arms. Then broke wind with some musicality.

"That!" Dean snapped. "Stop doing that!"

"Huh?" Sam blinked at him. Then passed gas again. "Hey, I can't help it."

"You totally can!" Dean yapped. "Sam, I forbid you to do… that in my car! Fuck me, that's vile!"

"It's your own fault," said Sam, "Stuffing all that crap into my body. You know what they say, Garbage In, Garbage Out." He frowned, winced, leaned ever so slightly sideways, and… "Oh, I feel better for that."

"Well I don't!" yelped Dean, "Don't point it at me! Open your window!"

'No," griped Sam, "I'm goin' back to sleep." He slouched against the window once more.

"I'll put you in the trunk," threatened Dean.

"I'll put you in a devil's trap," countered Sam. "As thou sows, so shalt thou reap."

"Don't you get biblical on me," snarled Dean.

"I'm not," shrugged Sam with a yawn and another flourish of flatulence, "I'm gettin' gastrointestinal on you."

"Sam, I FORBID you to fart in my car!"

"Well, I forbade you to eat that hamburger. Which, in Deanese, apparently, means 'Go right ahead and do that', so…" He went right ahead and did that.

"But you'll suffocate me!" Dean whined.

"You won't suffocate. You're a demon. You can't suffocate."

"There's always a first time!"

"Well, no big deal, I'll turn the car around; I know where to find a pathologist who can check your liver temperature, you jerk."

"Bitch."

* * *

So, now they have to find a way to dedemonify Dean before he commits, uh, Deanery again. What will it entail? Whom will it discombobulate? Will Bobby let Dean keep the cowboy boots? And will Crowley bring enough pain au chocolat back from France? Feed the bunny reviews so we can find out!


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

Back at Singer Salvage in the wee small hours, Sam gave Bobby a yawning account of their retrieval of Dean's body, including the assistance of Uncle Reuven 'Fergus' McLeod and Dean's case of premature resuscitation.

Bobby glared at Dean. "Well, what have you got to say for yourself, ya idjit?" he demanded.

"She poked a hole in my liver," Dean said resentfully, pulling up his shirt to show the evidence. "She cut me open, and poked a _hole_ in my _liver_!"

"You're damned lucky she didn't cut your whole damned body open, and put your liver in a bucket!" snapped Bobby. "Which is what usually happens when corpses turn up unexplained."

"It's cool, Sam and Crowley told 'em I was Jewish, and couldn't have an autopsy done," grinned Dean.

"And that would've worked," growled Bobby, "If you just could've held yer horses for another day."

"You don't know what it was like in there, Bobby!" protested Dean. "In Sam's head, it's all books, and there's essays and equations lyin' around to trip over, and there's tentacles. It's oogy in there."

"I don't care if it's wallpapered with paisley prints," Bobby growled, "If you coulda stayed put, you'd have been back in your own body with no complications!"

"There aren't any complications," insisted Dean. "Except for this hole. I need a band-aid."

"We don't know that," Sam pointed out, yawning again, "What we do know is that a pathologist of many years' experience certified a guy dead, then when he was cold and at least twelve hours in the refrigerator, he suddenly came back to life, with a bright smile, no apparent ill effects, and a sheet toga. That sort of thing gets documented. That's the sort of thing that draws Hunters' attention. If we heard about that, we'd be there, checkin' it out as a job."

"Damned straight," nodded Bobby, "Which is why you, your demonic Deanness, have to stay off the radar. There's Hunters out there would just love an excuse to come after you. And if a Hunter finds you, you'll find yourself exorcised, and headed Downstairs. Which would, incidentally, involve leaving your body behind. Again."

"And who knows how long it would take to get you back," added Sam, real worry in his voice.

"I'd just get a lift back with the Infernal Pack," Dean smiled winningly, like a child expecting a gold star after answering the teacher's question.

"Dean, you don't know that they could do that," Sam sounded exasperated.

"Well, send dear ol' Fet Fergus to come get me," shrugged Dean, "He was pretty damned convincing."

"Just how long do you think you'll last Downstairs once somebody there recognises you?" posed Bobby. "You got lots of enemies Down South, boy, and I aint talkin' about Alabama."

"Who's to say I won't kick their asses?" replied Dean. "Have a little faith, Bobby."

Sam let out a frustrated huff; appeals to common sense and prudence rarely worked on human!Dean; they sure weren't cutting any ice with demonified!Dean. "Just think about what might happen if some Hunter does manage to exorcise you," he suggested. "Think about what that would mean."

"I get to go kick ass Down South," Dean grinned smugly. "I like kicking demon ass. Don't care where, don't care when. You want me to drop into the Infernal Library while I'm there, get you the latest book in the _Sunset_ series?"

"Fine, okay, let's say you go renew your acquaintance with Senior Librarian Varael," said Sam, "And let's say she doesn't smite you there and then for breaking some library rule…"

"I wouldn't break any library rules!" insisted Dean.

"Dean, I'm pretty sure that, according to the Senior Librarian of Hell, you just setting foot in her library would constitute breaking the rules," Sam humphed. "Look, let's just say you go visit Downstairs; what happens to your body?"

"Well, it stays here, duh," said Dean. "Looking awesome."

"Uh-huh," agreed Sam, "And if you've been found and exorcised by a Hunter, what happens to it then?"

Dean frowned in thought. "Well, it'll probably be sitting in a devil's trap. Could even be tied to a chair." He waggled his eyebrows lewdly. "Of course, if it's a hot chick doing the tying up, I'm not gonna protest too much about that bit."

"Okay, let's say that a hot chick Hunter catches you in a devil's trap and, yeah, okay, ties you to a chair," sighed Sam. "Just think about this; what happens to…"

"Is she blonde, or brunette?" asked Dean. "Or a really fiery redhead?"

"That's not relevant," snapped Sam, "The point is, she's a Hunter, and your body is…"

"You're right," Dean mused judiciously, "It's not relevant. She could be hot, whatever her hair colour. Natural or not. Ladies with any hair colour can be hot."

"Good, we agree on something," grunted Sam. "So, this chick Hunter…"

"Hot chick Hunter."

"Yeah, right, this hot chick Hunter, whose hair could be any colour, has caught you in a devil's trap, and…"

"Does she have a hot chick Hunt buddy?"

"Dean, it doesn't matter! The point is…."

"It sure does! I mean, two hot chicks tying me up, ohhhh, it matters, Sammy."

"No it doesn't! Look this not about…. okay, okay, let's say she has a Hunt buddy, and…"

"Is her buddy another hot chick?"

"Yes. Yes. The two Hunters that catch you are both hot chicks. With whatever hair colours you want. So, they're gonna…"

"What colour panties are they wearing?"

"Dean, it DOESN"T MATTER!"

"It might."

"Dean, in this scenario, panties are not important, okay?"

"What, so they're goin' commando? Awesome!"

"Oh, God, look, Dean, I'm trying to make a serious point here. If you get caught by a Hunter…"

"Two hot chick Hunters."

"Dean…"

"With any hair colour."

"Dean…"

"Hey, does the carpet match the drapes?"

"Dean…"

"So, when they tie me to this chair, do they tie my feet together, or tie 'em to the legs of the chair, because that can make quite a difference depending on…"

"Dean!"

"At this point, are they naked?"

"_Dean!"_

"At this point, am I naked?"

DEAN!" Sam screeched, slamming a hand down on the table hard enough to make his big brother jump, his his voice steadily rose in pitch as he spoke. "Put your libido on a leash and listen to me for a minute! If a Hunter OR two hot chick Hunters with ANY colour hair and no panties and I DON'T KNOW MAYBE THEY'VE GOT BRAZILIANS OR SOMETHING and they catch you in a devil's trap and they tie you to a chair with your ankles behind your head for all we know and they're naked and you're naked and then they exorcise you WHAT DO YOU THINK WILL HAPPEN NEXT?!"

Dean gawped at his baby brother. "Uh, I dunno," he eventually managed. "But I'm real upset about the fact I won't be there to see it."

"It will NOT be a beautiful natural act, Dean!" Sam went on in a shrill tone, "They will see that your body is dead, and DON'T SAY A WORD ABOUT NECROPHILIACS, and they will be Hunters, so once they are sure that your body is dead, they will take steps to DISPOSE of it, which may well involve SETTING FIRE TO IT in which case the adjective 'hot' will come into it but not in a good way and ARE PAYING ATTENTION YET?"

The possibility that a woman might ever want to do anything with his body except engage in beautiful natural acts slowly dawned on Dean. "You mean… like… get rid of it?"

"Salt and burn would be the best option," Sam went on grimly, "It's what we do. Because to them, you'd just be one more poor bastard who was killed for the meatsuit, and they'd want to make sure you didn't hang around as an unquiet spirit."

Dean's expression became one of horror. "But… that would mean…"

"And what if it wasn't two hot chick Hunters, but one or more pissed Hunters, who'd cheerfully gut either of us?" Sam was relentless, "They're not just gonna be content to exorcise you; they'll want to defile your corpse first."

"De… defile my corpse?" Dean swallowed nervously.

Sam smiled like a shark. "There's lots of Hunters out there who'd take great satisfaction in removing your head from your shoulders," he reminded his brother. "A bit of dismemberment before lighting you up, to take a bit of post-mortem revenge. Remember that crackpot we had to save from himself, because he liked to collect ears from the fuglies he took down? He's still out there."

Dean let out a squeak, and clapped his hands to his ears.

"Or that idiot who threatened to cut your pretty face apart. You think he'd pass up the opportunity to do it, just because your body was dead?"

"But… but…I don't wanna die uglyyyyyy!" wailed Dean.

"Or, it could be a chick Hunter who isn't hot," Sam told him, "Remember the one in Wisconsin, who said if she ever saw you again, she'd turn your balls into earrings?"

Dean gawped like a horrified goldfish.

Sam went for the throat. "Or what if it's that slimeball from Tennessee, huh? You remember him, the guy that said if he ever saw you again, he'd cut off your dick and shove it up your own…"

"Meeeeeep!" went Dean.

"I mean, given the number of times people have told you to go fuck yourself, the possibility can't be ignored, bro."

"Meeeeeep!" went Dean.

"What an epitaph you'd have, here lies Dean Winchester, as anatomically correct as a Ken doll…"

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!" shrieked Dean with a sob, "I don't wanna die with my dick up my own ass!"

Bobby looked thoughtful. "You know, up until now, I could never have imagined any situation, any circumstance or context, in which anybody would make that assertion," he mused. "Life's just full o' surprises."

"So, if you don't want your last act, post-mortem as it would be, on this Earth to be self-violation, you'll shut the fuck up, and start doing what you're told, for your own good," pronounced Sam, as his big brother sniffled.

"You're so mean," mumbled Dean in a small voice.

"He's just tryin' to get you to understand the danger you could put yourself in, ya idjit," said Bobby gruffly, "If you don't think before you act."

Dean looked suitably chastened.

"So," continued Bobby, "You will stay here, in your own body, until such time as we figure out how to undo this demonising thing, and if I hear so much as a peep out of you, I will put you in the panic room without recourse to alcohol or internet porn, and there you will stay for The Duration, do you hear me?"

Dean looked like a dog who's been told there's no bacon left.

"Have you actually made any progress on undoing this?" asked Sam.

"Not directly," Bobby said, "But I have an idea I'm following up. But not now – you look wrecked, son. Go get some sleep. Come to think of it, I feel wrecked, and need some sleep."

"I don't!" chirped Dean happily.

"Then you may sit up and watch bad advertising channels and D-grade movies all night," pronounced Bobby.

"Hey, I can start wearing in my cowboy boots!" enthused Dean.

"Actually, you can't," Bobby smiled beatifically. "Because some time in the next couple of days, that shop in Gillette is gonna get a parcel with no return address, just a pair of boots and a note of apology from a shoplifter who had an attack of remorse the day after he stole 'em."

"But… but… you can't send my boots back!" protested Dean.

"Already have," grinned Bobby.

"But I suffered for those boots!" Dean complained. "I possessed a squirrel for those boots! I lost my body for those boots! I got hentaied by my brother's brain for those boots! I got a hole poked in my liver for those boots! It's not faaaaaair!"

"Not a lot in this life is, boy," chortled Bobby. "Now, I'm goin' to bed. Stay away from my booze. That's a direct order."

Muttering resentfully, Dean headed for the living room, Jimi following him loyally.

"He scared the shit out of me," admitted Sam as they headed up the stairs. "Seeing him dead like that, and worrying about what would happen if he did get caught on one of his excursions. I just want my brother back, how he should be."

"We'll fix this, Sam," Bobby reassured him, "I wasn't kidding. I think we'll need the assistance of His Royal Asshatness, but I think I can see a way to undo this. All we gotta do is keep him safe from Hunters and other demons until then."

"That we can do," Sam nodded, "But how do we keep him safe from himself?"

The shrieking yodel from downstairs was a noise suggesting that somebody of a demonic nature might have opened a liquor cabinet that had been booby-trapped by somebody of a suspicious nature with an atomiser and some water of a holy nature.

"We've never been able to do that, kid," Bobby chuckled, "What makes you think we got any chance now?"

* * *

Oh, Dean is such a naughty boy. How will they cure him of demonization? What further indignities must poor Crowley suffer before this whole ghastly episode is over? Feed Fergus the plot bunny reviews, because Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Tied To A Chair In The Devil's Trap Of Life!*

*For those few rare Denizens, Lurkers, Visitors or Casual Droppers-In who would prefer to join me for tea and scones, pull up a chair, and hopefully the rattling of the cups against the saucers will drown out any noises from the depraved beldames. I've got a little tearoom built overlooking Propriety Beach, which is one of the most picturesque places on Stripper!Pirate Island. It's also off-limits to Destiel fans and Wincest Princesses – they may not approach within a hundred feet, on pain of having their chocolate sauce super-soakers confiscated. It's great, you can't even hear their pillow fights from the verandah.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

"_I'm just a lonesome cowboy, I ride an endless road…"_

Sam turned a page of the yellowed manuscript he was studying.

"_I bear a heavy burden, I haul a heavy load…"_

The carefully inked diagram looked like the one in the other book; he cross-checked.

"_I'm just a lonesome Hunter, my soul is bruised and old…"_

"This looks like something similar," he said calmly, pointing out the resemblance to Bobby.

"_My heart is tired and heavy, my feet are fucking cold…"_

Bobby peered at both pages. "The rationale is pretty much the same," he agreed.

"_I chose to walk this path, and I chose to walk alone…"_

"Do you really think it might work?" queried Sam.

"_Though it hurts my little tootsies to walk upon the stone…"_

"The strategy is basically the same," shrugged Bobby, "Even if the starting point is different."

"_For that bitch my little brother is completely in cahoots…"_

"You think Crowley will agree to this?" asked Sam

"_With the evil bearded bastard who stole my cowboy boots…"_

"He will if the other option is to listen to Mr Dolly Parton in there," grumbled Bobby.

There was a flurry of guitar picking, and a change in tempo suggesting that somebody was about to commit Country and Western with extreme prejudice.

"_Ohhhhhhhh I am a barefoot cowboy, I am a barefoot cowboy,  
You took away my boots, you asshole, give 'em back right now, boy…"_

"Dean!" Sam slammed down his pen, and stomped into the living room. Dean was wearing a mournful expression as he picked at one of his purloined guitars and sang sadly about his felonious footwear.

"_My little toes are turning blue, I really don't care how, boy…"_

"DEAN! SHUT! UP!" yelled Sam. "You are not getting back a pair of stolen boots!"

"_But frozen toes is how it goes if you're a barefoot cowboy_… hey, Sam!" Dean grinned up at his brother. "Do you like my song?"

"No," snapped Sam, "I don't like your song, I don't like your singing, and I don't care if your feet are cold – you are NOT getting those boots back!"

"After all the stuff I stole for you when we were kids," mumbled Dean resentfully.

"That was different," Sam insisted. "That was a kid takin' care of a kid, stealing the basic necessities of life."

"Boots is necessary!" Dean stated firmly.

"Footwear is necessary," agreed Sam. "Croc skin cowboy boots are not."

"Dr Sexy wears cowboy boots," said Dean.

"Dr Sexy is not real," Sam said through clenched teeth. "Dr Sexy is a fictitious character in a badly written, badly acted soap opera. Dr Sexy is in the same category as porn, fatal abstinence from sex and broccoli poisoning: completely separate from reality."

Dean began to strum his guitar furiously. "Lalalalalalalalalalaaaaa," he warbled, "Not listening, not listening, notlisteningnotlistening lalalalalalalalalalalaaaaaaa…"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," humphed Sam, raising his voice. "Bobby! Bobby! Can we put him in the panic room?"

"You don't stop bellowin' like a cow in heat, I'll put you in there with him," threatened Bobby, coming into the living room and glowering at both Winchesters. "Now, if you will stop singin', and you will stop yellin', I think we might have a way to undo this."

"Can I still keep the guitars?" asked Dean pleadingly.

"Son, if this works, you can serenade me in 3/4 time as I recline on a balcony, for all I care," sighed Bobby. "We're gonna need His Hellish Majesty for this one – gimme a hand with the summoning, Sam."

"Hey, tell him to go via Gillette and pick up my boots!" chirped Dean brightly as Sam rolled back the rug. "Tell him the store's on the main street, just opposite the ga-"

_squirt squirt squirt squirt_

As Dean yowled in discomfort, Bobby put down his holy water spray bottle, picked up the chalk, and began to draw on the floor.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Bobby!" Crowley beamed hugely, and proffered a box, "So good to hear from you again! I take it the problem child got home safely?"

"Hey, are those my boots?" asked Dean hopefully.

Crowley gave him a peculiar look. "These are éclairs, pain au chocolat, and one of my personal favourites, canelés, from Bordeaux. There's a particularly good patisserie there, does marvellous coffee, too, if you'd ever like to pop over for afternoon tea sometime I'd be only too happy to…"

"I didn't summon you here for elevenses, asshat," griped Bobby, putting the box aside on the table. Dean carefully lifted the lid, and peeked into it. "You are here to help unproblemify the problem child, seein' as it's your doin'."

Crowley gave Bobby his most winning smile. "Bobby, mate," he began in a reasonable voice, "I'll be the first to admit I'm not Mr Squeaky Clean, in fact I'm a lot closer to Mr Silently Filthy, so to speak, but this is all Dean. He's the one who chose to take the Mark, and he's the one who chose to pick up the First Blade, and he's the one who chose to go up against a rather irritable angel. He's technically dead, darling. If you want to get nature back on track to take its course, you have knives in this household that will do the job, and I'm sur-"

He finished on a wordless squeak as Bobby moved like a snake to put one of those blades against his throat.

"Now you listen to me, you schemin' slimy sumbitch," the old Hunter growled, "Your fingerprints are all over this. If you didn't know all the details, you suspected, then you aided, abetted, enabled and facilitated to turn my boy, _my boy_, into one of you pieces of black-eyed scum, so if you _dare_ try to tell me that it's not your doin', I swear to you, Crowley, I will turn him loose with the Blade on your sorry worthless ass, and you will be grateful for the mercy he will offer after I have finished with you, because I promise you, I will tear you apart in ways that would make Alistair puke, and while you are beggin' for death I will laugh in your face and feed you piece by piece to my dog over what will seem to you like eternity and if you don't do this I will see you NAILED you piece of shit!"

"Meeep!" went Crowley.

Dean smiled brightly as he investigated the contents of the box. "Makes you go all tingly when he gets assertive like that, don't it?"

"So, now we've got that little misunderstandin' cleared up," Bobby beamed serenely at the King of Hell, "We can discuss how we're gonna tackle this."

"Er, yes, yes, quite," stuttered Crowley as Bobby let go of his shirt front. "Always happy to help a Man of Knowledge, ha ha ha, just call me Mr Helpful."

"The stuff we've been lookin' at has all related to the Trials of God," noted Sam. "Sealing the gates of Heaven, or Hell. And look how well that turned out last time," he added gloomily.

"You're thinkin' too literally, here," Bobby chided him, "That aint how spells work. They're as much about context as they are about actual content. We don't wanna seal any gates – although I gotta admit, lockin' the panic room door with _somebody_ on the other side does sound pretty attractive – we're interested in the bit that's the means, not the end."

"You mean, cure a demon?" asked Sam.

"Almost," Bobby went on, "The thing is, Dean's not exactly your run-of-the-mill demon. He's been demonified, yeah, but not the usual way, and not completely."

"His singing is pretty diabolical," observed Sam tartly.

"No more so than usual," Bobby pointed out, "Stolen guitars notwithstandin'. He worries about you, he shows a distinct lack of desire to kill anybody except other demons, and he thinks of himself as a Hunter; on the inside, he's still essentially… Dean."

Dean looked up, face smeared with chocolate from the French pastries, and smiled.

"And he's still very Dean on the outside," muttered Bobby. "Anyway, the point is, he aint a demon. But he's demon-like. So, we gotta come up with a way to do that. And that is where you come in, Your Majesty," he turned to Crowley.

Crowley looked nonplussed. "Well, I'm surprised at you, Bobby," he said, "Given what it did to Moose last time. I mean, having to become an angel's onesie, talk about the cure being almost worse than the disease. I suppose you could ask your little friend Clarence to help out this time – the added bonus is that, as I understand it, a subclass of fangirls enjoy extrapolating that sort of thing, Sastiel, I think they call it…"

"I'm not talkin' about him, idjit," snapped Bobby, "I'm talkin' about you."

"…And they are the sworn enemies of… What?" Crowley looked perplexed. "Are you suggesting… no, no, I couldn't possibly, not even for you, darling, no matter what you threaten me with – I'm a demon, I don't have nearly the power of an angel, and I have no idea how to go about healing a damaged Sasquatch from the inside."

"Watch out for the tentacles, is my advice," intoned Dean seriously, licking cream from his fingers.

"Besides, I don't know if anybody over on Tumblr would be interested; what would you even call it? Samley? Crowam? Cram? Have you been spending time over on LiveJournal, love, they're a strange bunch there…"

"No, no, no, ya idjit," Bobby rolled his eyes, "You're not gonna stand in for an angel, fixin' Sam after he does any sort of Trial. You're gonna stand in _for_ Sam."

"…Some of their artwork just boggles the mind… What? What?" whatted Crowley, suddenly looking panicked. "Did I hear you correctly? Are you saying that you… you want me to… do… you want me to do some version of the Trials? The Trials that nearly killed Jolly Green? Are you mad?"

"Oh yeah," nodded Bobby, "I'm as mad as hell. At you, largely. And that's why you're gonna do this. Because I won't have Sam riskin' himself, although I know he would, for his brother – shaddap, boy, I have spoken, and you aint doin' it – and this is your fault anyway, asshat."

"But, but, but what if it kills me?" wailed Crowley.

"Technically, you're already dead," Bobby told him smugly. "Besides which, I'm thinkin' that a demon will be harder to 'kill' than a human, so gettin' you to do this makes sense. Like I said, it's all about context. Besides _which_ besides which," his eyes narrowed, "If you don't do this, I will kill you myself, slowly and horribly: you will know agony, and you will know terror, and then you will die, have a nice day."

"Before you kill him, can he go get more pastries?" asked Dean breezily.

Sam grabbed up the box. "You ate everything in there?" he asked incredulously. "You pig! God, he hasn't even left crumbs!"

"No I didn't!" Dean was adamant. "I gave one of the éclairs to Jimi." Beside the sofa, the dog gave Sam a doggy smile, and licked crème patisserie from his whiskers.

"You gave the dog a chocolate éclair?" demanded Sam.

"Of course not!" scoffed Dean. "I gave him a caramel one. You think I'm stupid?"

"I think you're greedy, you jerk," Sam shot back.

"I was hungry!" complained Dean. "It's all that bein' dead, and being put back in my body, and having to CONSOLE MYSELF with the EMPTY CALORIES of COMFORT FOOD after the EMOTIONAL TRAUMA of having my beloved COWBOY BOOTS wrenched away from me so callously."

"Shaddap, the pair of ya!" yelled Bobby. "God's tits, I'm gettin' too old for this sort of crap."

"We could head to Bordeaux," Crowley suggested, "Good wine, good food, sophisticated women."

"Feet that smell like cheese," added Dean, "Or is it the cheese that smells like feet?"

"As attractive as the prospect of submergin' myself in a vat of robust red sounds," sighed Bobby, "What I will actually do will be to get back to the research, see if I can figure out what exactly needs to be done. You," he indicated Crowley, "Can fetch coffee or get lost, and you," he glared at Dean, "Can stay here, and stay out of trouble."

"There are days, Bobby," Crowley sighed dramatically, "There are days when I wonder if you even give a damn about me."

"Wonder no more," grunted Bobby, "I don't. Now, git."

"Hey, see if you can get my boots back!" said Dean, as Bobby glared at him. With a deeply put upon sigh, Crowley disappeared.

"The only boots you'll be gettin' is one of mine up your ass, boy," Bobby warned him. "Come on, Sam, we got work to do."

"Hey, Bobby, what about if me and Sam do a proper road trip, and we go back there, and I promise I will stay in my own body the whole time, and

_squirt squirt squirt squirt_

AAAAAAAAAARGH!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam tried to concentrate on the page in front of him as the strains of Dean picking his guitar and singing in a falsetto voice drifted into the study; the tune might even have been from a song that had been written by someone who was too white to be Asian, and too old to be a beauty, but was definitely busty.

"_Back through the ether I went wanderin' once again,  
__Back to a place I once had been,  
__I recall a little store that dealt in footwear,  
__And a pair of cowboy boots that I had seen…"_

"You know, that boy's actually got a talent," mused Bobby.

"Hmmmm," went Sam.

"_And the boots were all hand-crafted, the uppers and the soles,  
__The shoes I had were old and thin, worn and full of holes,  
__And I told myself that one day I would get myself a pair  
__Of the awesome croc skin cowboy boots that I saw sittin' there…"_

"It's something of a pity that it took demonification for him to let it out, and have some fun with it," the old man sighed.

"Hmmmm," went Sam.

"_My cowboy boots of croc skin that I went and stole for me,  
__Although I lost my body, and got all squirrelly,  
__But Bobby called me idjit and ignored my heartfelt plea:  
__My cowboy boots of croc skin he took away from me."_

"Heh heh," Bobby chortled, "You know, I never would've picked him as a Dolly Parton fan."

Sam didn't go 'Hmmmm." Silently, he stood, and made his way to the living room, where Dean crooned mournfully about losing his cowboy boots.

There was a crash, a twang, and a squawk suggestive of a guitar being smashed over the back of the sofa, if not actually over somebody's head.

"Never would've picked Sam as a fan of The Who, either," Bobby mused to himself. "Oh well, we live and learn."

* * *

Poor Dean. Poor Crowley. And poor Bobby, plagued by idjits. Whatever next?

Send reviews to help Fergus the plot bunny along, because Reviews Are The Rhinestones On The Bust Of The C&W Singer Of Life!


	17. Chapter 17

So, now that Ulfric (the plot bunny who was dictating 'Dude Were's My Apocalypse?') has been well and truly and finally and very very flatly stomped, Fergus is piping up again. He came up with this just today.

In the last chapter, the song 'My Cowboy Boots Of Croc Skin' that Dean sang in the last chapter was set to the tune of Dolly Parton's 'My Coat Of Many Colours'. But the 'Barefoot Cowboy Song', that was all Dean.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

"Is this going to take much longer?" asked Crowley, hovering in the doorway of the study.

"It takes as long as it takes," growled Bobby, not looking up. "And each time you interrupt us, it'll take longer."

"Is it absolutely essential for me to babysit the problem child?" the King of Hell whined.

"Yeah, it is," Sam smiled humourlessly, "Seein' as it's your fault he's like this."

Crowley opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. "He really is an oik, you know," he said wistfully. "He chews with his mouth open, he wants to watch porn, the music he listens to, the movies he watches, the junk he eats, the last two weeks of my life have been hell…"

"Bitch, please," Sam rolled his eyes. "Come back in thirty years."

"His dog doesn't like me," moaned Crowley.

"Nobody likes you, Crowley," Bobby snapped, "Now get back in there, before…"

There was another sudden burst of guitar chords, and the three of them groaned.

"What did I tell you about not letting him out of your sight?" said Bobby.

"Look, I can't stop him!" Crowley complained, "He wants doughnuts, he wants beers, he wants more guitars, what am I supposed to do?"

"You're the King of Hell," snarked Sam, "Put your foot down!"

"I tried that," Crowley replied in a small voice. "Laying down the law, setting the ground rules, establishing the pecking order, putting my foot down. It didn't work."

"What happened?" asked Bobby.

"He summoned the Blade, and put it through my shoe," griped Crowley, extending one punctured extremity to be examined. "Right through my shoe! With my foot still inside it! That's Italian leather, that is! _And_ he left a hole in your rug."

"Balls," muttered Bobby, pushing back his chair, "Come on, then, I'll talk to him."

Dean was playing a new guitar in the living room, pausing occasionally to take another doughnut from one of the boxes stacked in front of him.

"Dean," Bobby began in the voice of a man who was hanging on to his patience by a tenuous thread, "II really think it's important that you stay here, and don't go zappin' yourself around."

"But I was hungry," protested Dean. "And Sam broke my guitar," he added reproachfully.

"Nonetheless, I think it would be better if you stayed put," Bobby reiterated.

"But I'm boooooooored!" Dean howled. "It's okay for you two, you like to have sex with books, I'm boooooooored!"

Bobby sent a small prayer Heavenward to whichever saint was in charge of assisting people who were being vexed by idjits. "Well, maybe we can make a compromise, here," he suggested, "If you get hungry, Crowley can go and get you something to eat…"

"What?" whatted Crowley in disbelief. "When did I get promoted to catering courier?"

"…And if you get bored, you can always ask him to arrange you something to do," Bobby finished, giving Crowley a brief but meaningful eyebrow waggle that clearly indicated that if the demon wanted to make it through the day with all his limbs still attached, he would do it.

"What about arranging me somebody to do?" asked Dean hopefully.

"Why don't you get a gaming platform?" suggested Sam, ignoring his big brother's libidinous suggestion. "You like that sort of thing. Tell Crowley what to get, and he can go and pick one up for you."

"Awesome!" Dean beamed with a beautiful smile. "Okay, let's go for the PlayStation, and get some really cool games, and get some wings, 'cause I love wings, and Jimi loves wings, don't ya, J-Man, and get some booze, hey, hey, get some from that place I was headed, you know, Nelson County, and get some snacks, and get some beer…"

"Would you like me to make a list, so I don't forget anything?" asked Crowley in an acid tone between clenched teeth.

"It's okay, I'll write it all down for you," offered Dean generously, "Hey, we can have a real good time while these two nerd it up!"

"That's a great idea, Dean," Bobby nodded encouragingly, "But while Crowley's out doin' his errands, there is one little thing I think you should take care of yourself."

"You think I should go out and find me somebody to do?" Dean said brightly.

"Well, I'd really rather you didn't," Bobby frowned, "But what I think you really should do, is take Mr Santana's body back to where you found it. Yeah, yeah, before you ask, you can keep the guitar, I'm sure he's got dozens and he won't miss just one."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

With much protesting and complaints about the general quality of Dean's dietary preferences, habits and disgusting practices, Crowley did as he was told. You don't survive to become King of Hell without figuring out that sometimes discretion is the better part of valour, it's not always best to stand on your principles if that gives somebody a clear shot at your head, and generally behaving in a way that keeps your arms and legs firmly attached to your meatsuit is frequently the desirable option.

However, within an hour of his return, it was Dean who was at the study door, complaining.

"What now, Dean?" Sam glared at his brother, resenting the interruption, and shooting him a searing Bitchface #15™ (There Had Better Be A Good Explanation For This, Dean).

"I don't want to play PlayStation with Crowley any more," Dean pouted.

"You can't be bored already," huffed Bobby.

"He cheats!" whined Dean.

"How does he cheat?" asked Sam, intrigued in spite of himself.

"I don't know!" Dean practically wailed, "But he is! He keeps winning!"

"Maybe he's just found something he can do," shrugged Bobby, turning back to his books, "Now, stop pestering us, and go amuse yourself. Without leaving the house, bringing anybody else here, or doin' anythin' that might be interpreted as bein' in any way demonic, sinful, otherwise unnatural or at all likely to make me call you an idjit," he added, seeing the sly look on Dean's face.

Dean pouted so epically that his bottom lip was in danger of dropping off as a cheerful call from the Living Room drifted to them.

"Yoo hoo! Deeeeean! Where are you, problem child? Let's have a try with this one. Come on, do you want to be the Aliens, or the Predators?"

"I hate him so much," muttered Dean.

"I thought he was your demonic bestie?" asked Sam with deadpan solicitousness.

Dean shot back a rejoinder suggesting that, not only had John and Mary Winchester somehow ceased to be married when Sam was conceived, but his little brother reliably cried his way through sex. With goats.

"It's your own fault, son," observed Bobby, "If you weren't bein' so irresponsible with your, uh, current situation, I wouldn't have to ground ya. So, suck it up."

"Can't I play games with Sam instead?" asked Dean. "I always beat him at stuff like this."

"No you don't!" Sam shot back.

"Yeah, I do," Dean asserted, "You're hopeless at these things."

"I am not!" protested Sam.

"Yeah you are."

"I'm not!"

"You are."

"I'm NOT!"

"I'm afraid you are."

"Not!"

"Are!"

"Not!"

"Are!"

"Not!"

"Shaddap!" bellowed Bobby, looking up from his book. "I need your brother to help me with this, becau- GOD'S TITS!"

When he turned, he saw Dean, eyes angry black, glaring at Sam. Sam, for his part, had one hand extended towards his brother, and was grimacing right back at him.

The air crackled with the ozone and sulphur tang of clashing demonic power.

"You boys stop that right now!" snapped Bobby, "Don't you DARE do this in my house!"

"He started it," Dean ground out between clenched teeth.

"I did not," growled Sam.

"You did!"

"I did not!"

"You totally did!"

"I – did – NOT!"

"Did!"

"Didn't!"

"Did!"

"Didn't!"

"Did!"

"Didn't!"

"Di-"

_squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt_

As the Winchesters broke off their argument, shrieking about being sprayed with holy water, Bobby grabbed one by the scruff of the neck in each hand and marched them to the panic room, shoving them in and shutting the door.

"Bobby!" called Dean, "Bobbyyyyyy! Don't leave me down here!"

"Nice going, jerk," humphed Sam, sitting down heavily on the bed, "Now we're stuck here."

"Not my fault," mumbled Dean, bending to the slot in the door. "Bobbyyyyyy! Can we at least have the PlayStation?"

"Good luck with that," commented Sam glumly, "I think we made him really angry. We'll be lucky if we get dinner, let alone your gaming stuff."

A minute later, the door creaked, and Bobby, with a face like thunder, thrust the tangle of electronics through the door.

"Uh, thank you?" said Dean, picking up a controller. "Oh, hey," he called through the slot again, "We, uh, we need the TV to run it through, can we have the TV as well?"

"He won't be carting a TV down here," Sam cautioned him, "Look, our best bet is just to sit tight, and work on the wording of our apology, so when he's cooled off, we can…"

The door opened, and a TV set came sailing through to land with a tinkling crash on the floor.

"Oh, er. Thanks," said Dean to their stony-faced jailer, gazing forlornly at the wrecked set.

"I don't suppose you can, you know," Sam waved a hand vaguely, "Use your freaky demon mojo to, uh, fix it?"

"I don't think so," sighed Dean regretfully. "This whole demonified schtick, it's more about destroying things than doin' anything useful. I mean, I think I could probably reduce it to atoms, but not actually make it work again." He plonked down beside his brother. "I'm, uh, sorry," he began, "For doing the demon thing at you."

"That was damned stupid," muttered Sam, "You know I hate doing that! I don't want to remember that I can do that! And what if I'd really hurt you?"

"I was more worried that I might really have hurt you," admitted Dean shamefacedly.

Sam made a noise of disbelief. "Dean, I put Lucifer on a leash, and threw him into the Cage!" Sam reminded him, "What would happen if I unloaded on you? Like, if I didn't mean to, but you lost your temper and threw your mojo at me, and, and, and…" the idea made him shudder to a stop.

"Bobby would call us idjits?" predicted Dean.

"At the very least," sighed Sam, looking around.

"So, how was the, uh, dedemonification research goin'?" asked Dean.

Sam gave him a rueful grin. "Well, I think we'd just about figured out a way to do it," he told his brother. "It's like Bobby said, it's all about context, the means being just as important as the end."

"Well, that's, that's great," Dean nodded encouragingly, "So, uh, what do I have to do?"

Sam's face turned sheepish, but perhaps just a little bit evil. "Well, the thing is, you're not the usual run-of-the-mill demon, so Bobby thinks it will work better if we have Crowley do it, seeing as he's tangled up in the whole mess himself. But I really don't think he's gonna like it."

Dean grinned. "Well, then, if Crowley aint gonna like it, I like it already," he stated, staring up at the Devil's Trap on the ceiling. "So, are you up for getting your ass kicked at I-Spy?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Bobby wandered out to the living room, where Crowley had resumed game play on another haul of electronics he'd zapped out and purloined. "Bobby, mate!" he beamed hugely, "I had no idea that this sort of mindless crap could be so entertaining! Do you want a turn? I'm given to believe that this is an absolute classic! Here, I'll show you, see, you run over here, then climb this cliff, then go into this cave, like so, aaaaaand pick up the uzis, now, we go back out of the cave, and shoot the dinosaur, then we can go across the valley and climb up the _other _cliff to get the cog, or we can just throw her off the cliff and listen to her scream all they way down, look, she makes such a funny scrunching noise when she hits the ground… wait for it…"

"I aint here to play games, asshat," snapped Bobby, "I'm here to fix what happened to my boy, before one of 'em kills the other, or they both kill each other. Because if anything happens to 'em, you will be the first thing I kill.

"But Bobby, darling," Crowley put down his controller, "It's hardly my fault if Dean's a bit of a hothead. And we've known that Sam is one of the Special Children with serious anger issues for a long time now… er, quite," he wilted under Bobby's withering stare. "So, what news from the research front?"

"As it happens, I think we're onto somethin'," the old Hunter continued, "It's a long shot, but I've been around for long enough to get a feel for how spells and rituals like this work." He put down the sheaf of notes he'd made. "It's like the Trials. Only not shutting any gate. And you, Your Majesty, are neck deep in this."

"All right, all right," sighed Crowley, standing up, "I know what I have to do. First Trial, kill a Hellhound, bathe in its blood, blah blah blah, disgusting but straightforward. I'll just pick a small one, drop off my suit at the dry cleaners, actually, better idea, do you have anything I could borrow Bobby, one of your cheerful plaids that wouldn't even show the stains, perhaps…"

Bobby gave him a smile holding so much amusement that he drivelled to a halt.

"Like I said, idjit," the old man's face screwed up with merriment, "It's all about context. For you, the First trial isn't to 'kill a hellhound and bathe in its blood'."

"It isn't?" Crowley let out a small sigh. "Oh, Bobby, you are naughty, you really had me going there for a moment. I mean, I like a bit of meaningless slaughter as much as the next demon, but…"

"That's exactly the point," Bobby smiled wider. "You aint supposed to enjoy it. It's a Trial, remember?"

"Oh. Er, yes, well, quite," stammered Crowley, "So, er, what exactly do I have to do, if not kill a Hellhound and bathe in its blood?"

"Somethin' remarkably similar," Bobby grinned, "Or analogous, anyways. You gotta kiss a Hellhound. And bathe in its love."

* * *

Poor Crowley. There had to be a catch, didn't there? What will happen? Send reviews to feed to Fergus, because Reviews Are The Doughnuts Fetched For You As You Sit On The Couch Of Life!


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

Crowley blinked, and then smiled with the relief of a man who has been told that he has to spend an afternoon cleaning out a horse barn, then finds out it's actually the pink plastic stable of Barbie's horse Tawny.

"Well, that will not present any problem at all," he chortled, "I shall simply summon my darling little Gedda, who is not just a full-blooded Hellhound and at least the second-most feared Beast of the Pit, she is my dear companion and a model of unconditional loyalty and affection. Gedda!' He called, adding a cheerful whistle, "Gedda! Where are you, my darling? Come to Daddy!"

With a brief _fwoop_ noise, a small comet of white vapour popped into existence, and swooped playfully around the room. It swooshed past Bobby a couple of times, and he couldn't help smiling as he felt the ghostly lick of a small doggy tongue in his ear, then the tiny fluffy missile whizzed around Crowley, an excited electron orbiting a doting nucleus with so much energy it couldn't decide which shell to occupy, before taking physical form and dropping into his arms as an equally tiny and fluffy toy Hellpoodle.

"Here she is!" Crowley crooned to the little dog as she climbed up his jacket to kiss his nose, tail wagging furiously, "Here's my little Gedda! Ooooh, she's so ferocious, isn't she? Yes you are! Yes you are!" With a happy yip, the Hellpoodle redoubled her efforts to kiss Crowley into submission. "She's a terror to demons, aren't you, my sweet? But not to me. Oooooh, who's a beautiful bloodthirsty girl, then?" Ruffling the little animal's ears, he bent down and air-smooched her fuzzy little head extravagantly, sending Gedda into paroxysms of delight.

Bobby gave him a pointed look. "That aint gonna cut it, asshat."

Crowley's face assumed an expression of good-natured resignation. "Oh, all right, then," he sighed dramatically. "We'll make it a proper kiss. I've kissed worse, during my career. And plenty of them have laid on the tongue action." He looked down at the happy little creature in his arms. "Even though I do know where you've been. Come on, then, let's make a deal, Gedda, for more cuddles!" Gedda yipped happily at the suggestion, or maybe just at the tone of Crowley's voice. "Is that a yes? All right, then, let's seal it…" With barely a hesitation, he lifted the little bundle of affection, and planted an audible kiss on her muzzle.

The gesture made her go beserk with cheerful doggy enthusiasm. "There we go," he put Gedda down, and reached into a pocket for a silk handkerchief. "Go and say hello to Bobby, darling," he urged her, dabbing at his mouth. "You know, that could've been worse, even knowing that she regularly tears the seats out of very senior demons' trousers." He looked quite pleased with himself. "I think I did rather well, considering how close that muzzle has been to the arse end of some extremely unpleasant Hierarchy. At least it's a close as I'll ever come to actually having to kiss those arses. So, Trial Number One done, what's next?"

Bobby sighed as he bent down to pat Gedda, who was butting against his legs for attention. "As I was tryin' to tell you, it aint that simple, idjit," he said. "That hardly counted as a Trial, did it?"

"Hardly at all," agreed Crowley breezily, "I suppose that when one is as, well, capable as I am, these things are bound to go better than expected.

"You're not listening to me!" snapped Bobby, straightening up. "It's _supposed_ to be a Trial! It's _supposed_ to be difficult! That's the whole point!"

"Well it's not my fault if I'm just too competent," Crowley sniffed disdainfully.

"But it is your fault that you're an idjit," Bobby growled. "Now, shut up, and listen. You are required to kiss a Hellhound, and bathe in its love. I _said_, shut up, and I'll fill you in on the details…"

Bobby proceeded to fill Crowley in on the details.

Crowley stopped smiling.

And started looking like a man who, having been told that he'll be required to clean out the stable of Barbie's horse, discovers that it is in fact a full-sized replica, right down to the pink cladding, built by a forty-something Barbie enthusiast who still lives with his parents and doesn't get out much.

And for the past six months, it's been occupied by a troop of baboons. With chronically upset stomachs. And a penchant for hurling their own dung.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"I spy, with my jet black eye," Dean began, "Something beginning with… B."

"Bitch," Sam answered immediately in a flat tone. The game that they had played for hours when he was a small child was, somehow, not quite so engaging now that he was stuck in the panic room with his appallingly cheerful brother, and had palled very quickly indeed. Especially once Dean had used the same B-word several times.

"That's right!" grinned Dean, "Okay, your turn, super-brain."

With a barely controlled humph, Sam said, "I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with J."

"Jerk!" Dean guessed immediately.

"No," said Sam.

"Jimi," Dean indicated the dog who had joined them, and was contentedly snoozing and chasing rabbits in his sleep.

"Nope."

"Jacket?"

"More nope."

Dean waggled his right hand where he wore the heavy silver ring. "Jewellery?"

"No."

"It's not some obscure sigil on the walls in here, is it?" Dean looked around. "Something that hasn't been used for thousands of years, and only a gigantic geek like you would recognise? Jumping Jerusalem's Jewish Judges' Juju?"

"No."

"Jennifer's Jiggling Jugs?" Dean nodded to the one girly poster on the wall.

"No!"

"Hmmmmmm." Dean frowned in thought, then sighed. "I gotta give up, Sammy," he admitted, looking around, "What?"

Sam glared at him. "Justifiable homicide victim digging his own grave," he growled.

Dean pouted, "Oh, hey, that's not a word, that's a whole sentence, no fair!" he complained. Then he sighed. "I guess you're right," he went on, "That game's kinda boring. This room is kinda boring. I'm kinda bored. I want something to do!" He frowned in thought again, then a bright smile broke out on his face. "Hey, I know! I'll call Cas!"

Sam's eyes bugged in disbelief. "What?"

"I'll call Cas," Dean repeated, "He can get in just about anywhere. He can get in here. So, if we can't go out and do something, something to do can come to us! He can bring us another PlayStation!"

"Dean, that's a bad idea," Sam said firmly. "Cas has things to deal with in Heaven. Serious things. He has important responsibilities. You can't go pestering him just because you're bored!"

"What if he's just as bored as I am?" theorised Dean, "What if he really needs a break, too?"

Sam sighed. "Then he can go and, and, I don't know, stand in that garden on a Tuesday, or something, he's an adult, well, in some ways he's an adult, but he's an angel, okay, and he's perfectly capable of deciding when he needs a break…"

But Dean was already kneeling by the bed, his face assuming an expression of reverence as he put his hands together and cleared his throat.

"Now I kneel me down to pray,  
To angel Castiel I say  
I beg you now to come to me  
To help with this catastrophe…"

"Dean…"

"Dreadful fate has now befell  
This wayward son – it's like some hell  
A terrible calamity,  
I plead with you to rescue me…"

"Dean…"

"And stuck with me, my brother Sam  
Is suffering just as I am,  
I really don't know what to do,  
And so, at last, I turn to you…"

"Dean…"

"And if I die here, sorely pained,  
I hope at least I'm entertained…"

There was a _flap-flap_ noise, and a flash of light, as Castiel, Angel of the Lord and Warrior of Heaven, manifested before them in all his celestial glory, wearing his full armour, his sword in his hand, radiating righteous vengeance and glaring out at Creation with his most intimidating Eye Sex Stare Of Doom.

"Dean, Sam," he barely acknowledged them, striding across the room, clearly looking for something to smite. "Where is the danger?"

"Whoa," Dean breathed, taking in the sight before him, "That's… wow, Cas, you are totally bad-ass!"

"The content and tone of your prayer suggested that you were in terrible peril," the angel growled, looking around, "What is threatening you?"

Sam let out a small exasperated noise. "I'm so sorry, Cas," he groaned, "I tried to stop him…"

Castiel stared at Dean, having trouble taking in what was before him. "Dean," he began uncertainly, "You are…"

"Yeah, yeah, demonified," sighed Dean, "Which is totally uncool now that Bobby's locked us in here…"

"What happened?" the Angel of the Lord asked in a devastated tone.

"It's kind of a long story," sighed Sam, sitting down on the bed again and giving Castiel the abridged Reader's Digest version of Dean's Demonic Doings.

The angel's face filled with sadness and the infinite compassion of Heaven. "I understand," he said gently.

"And I_ told _him not to pester you, because... you do?" Sam asked.

"Yes." Castiel turned to Dean, and found a smile. "Now that I am here, I understand."

"See?" grinned Dean. "I told you he'd fix the problem! He's awesome like that! So, what I was thinking was… Cas?" Dean's face filled with concern when he saw tears in the angel's eyes. "Cas, dude, are you okay?"

"No, I am not," Castiel took a deep breath, "But I will be." He drew himself to his full height, and his face became resolute. "Dean Winchester, you are the Righteous Man, and it would be an honour, as a servant of Heaven and as… your friend, to offer you my assistance."

"Uh, well, yeah," Dean nodded, "Because that's what friends do, right? Help each other out?"

Castiel smiled. "Yes," he agreed, "That is what friends do."

"Great!" said Dean, "So I was thinking tha- HEY!"

Striking like a snake, Castiel's blade flashed out, and would've run Dean clean through if he hadn't jumped out of the way with the reflexes of a life-long Hunter augmented by demonification.

"What the… Cas, you, you, you assbutt!" yelped Dean. "Oh, I really liked this shirt!"

"This will be easier if you hold still, Dean," Castiel murmured, advancing once more, "I promise you, it will be painless."

"Painless… ?" With a shriek, Dean darted out of the way of another strike, and scuttled behind Sam. "Sam! Saaaaam! Stop the crazy angel! He's tryin' to skewer me!"

"What am I supposed to do?" asked Sam wildly, "He's an angel! Cas!" He held up his hands pleadingly, "Look, can we, uh, you know, talk about this?"

Castiel lowered his weapon, looking confused. "I don't understand," he said, "Dean prayed to me for this. Have you changed your mind, Dean?"

The penny dropped for Sam.

"No!" he yipped. "I mean, yeah! I mean, not that! I mean, don't kill him!"

"But he is clearly distressed by having been transformed into a demon," Castiel said, "He begged me for help, to release him from his pain…"

"Boredom!" squawked Dean, his eyes bugging in horror, "I prayed for release from boredom!"

Castiel frowned as if he didn't understand the word. "Boredom?"

"Boredom!" confirmed Dean as his face assumed an expression of terrible suffering. "We are overwhelmed, tormented, _crushed_, by terrible, terrible _boredom_!"

Castiel blinked at him, and lowered his blade. 'You… you prayed to me because you were… bored?"

"Very bored," Dean nodded vigorously, "Very, very bored. Very, very, _very._ bored. We are SO bored."

"Bobby locked us in down here while he gets on with research on how to undo it," Sam explained warily. "He, uh, didn't like us arguing."

"He broke our gaming stuff," Dean added reproachfully.

"I told him you had much more important things to deal with," Sam gave his brother a reproachful _Bitchface_ #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?), "But he wouldn't listen."

Castiel shrugged and his armour vanished, to be replaced by his more usual earthly attire of rumpled suit, loose tie and ever-present trench coat. He gave Dean a long Eye Sex Stare Of Doom, until Dean started to wilt.

"Demons are by nature selfish creatures," he intoned eventually, "They care for nothing but their own wants and desires, with no concern for the welfare of others. Under the circumstances, it is not completely unexpected that Dean would behave in a fashion so contrary to his usual character, and to entertain a sense of warped priority regarding current events. And so, on this occasion, I think it would be… reasonable to forgive him this lapse in judgement."

Sam let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Thanks, Cas," he sighed, "That's… thanks."

"Bobby believes that this transformation can be reversed?" Castiel pressed.

"Yeah," Sam assured him, "We got Crowley helping out…"

"He was cheating," Dean rumbled resentfully.

"…So we should have him back to his old, angst-riddled, self-loathing, doubt-racked self ASAP."

"Very well," Castiel nodded. "Then I shall take my leave, as I do have celestial matters to attend to."

"Uh, while you're here, do you think you could let us out?" asked Sam hopefully.

"Bobby is a Man of Knowledge," Castiel replied, "If he put you down here, it is for a reason. Goodbye."

With a _flap-flap_ noise, he was gone.

"Hey!" Dean yelled at empty air, "Hey! Where are you goin'? I wasn't kidding about the boredom thing! The least you could do would be to fix the TV before you go, you flying dick!"

There was another _flap-flap_ noise as Castiel briefly reappeared, and slapped Dean upside the head.

"Assbutt," he growled, before disappearing again.

* * *

I get the feeling that there might have been quite a bit of pent-up exasperation in that one headslap. Castiel has clearly been taking notes from Bobby. Which is fair enough; after all, Bobby is a Man Of Knowledge.

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	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

_It's not the size of the dog in the fight;  
It's the size of the fight in the dog._

In this age of global electronic connectivity, that comment has been widely attributed to Mark Twain. Scholars of his work claim that it is not located anywhere in his extant writings, so this alleged authorship should be taken with a grain of sodium chloride, bearing in mind the advice from another great American thinker with a brutally practical streak, Thomas Ava Edison: 'Don't tolerate the company of fools who will believe anything just because it's on the internet'.

Quibbles over authorship are irrelevant, though, because the fundamental truth of it has been recognised ever since canines and furless apes started enjoying each other's companionship. From the half-domesticated wolf puppy who tried thousands of years ago to attack a bear (to the utter astonishment of the nomadic tribe that the pup's pack had been tagging along with) to the Yorkshire Terrier who's slavering to take on a bemused Neapolitan Mastiff, if only with the apparent intent of choking it to death on the way down, people with dogs know this to be true. You might as well go around saying that at dawn, the sun comes up. Why would you bother even to articulate it when it's so obvious?

Well, possibly because it looks good on a t-shirt, especially being worn by the person walking that Yorkie. If the guy holding the leash and wearing the shirt is a bodybuilder, and the Yorkie has a little yellow bow around its topknot, that's an even better reason.

But if this snappy slogan applies to dogs in general, in applies to Hellhounds in particular.

In concept, at least. Properties like 'size' really mean nothing to a Hellhound: rigid physical architecture is a constraint imposed on transient mortal creatures, which must see out a short life within the confines of this physical plane, where they experience only three dimensions and time moves in a narrow channel, always forward, at the same plodding rate.

Hellhounds are not like that, although they are perceived as having 'size' when they are seen by humans and most demons (who may no longer be tethered to the stifling strictures of mortal space and time, but once were, and people generally find that life can be a pretty damned difficult habit to break). It's not just because of the remarkable nature of Hellhounds, which can and do take actual or semi-physical forms when their activities take them Upstairs. It's also to do with the remarkable nature of the human mind: confronted with something that is just totally and utterly beyond the bounds of anything its very essence is equipped to deal with, the human mind interprets the uninterpretable to present an analogy or metaphor that it can handle without exploding. Not a bad trick, considering that it's a mind that originally evolved to figure out what coloured fruit was ready to eat and whether a particular pattern of movement represented a possible predator.

(Angels understand this: they have known for a very long time that a human vessel and a human voice are necessary to interact with a human, because the overwhelming majority could not handle, mentally or physically, an encounter with an angel in its true form. It did take a bit of figuring out, though – the evolution of intelligent hominids was probably put back by a millennium or two due to angels manifesting before primates that seemed to be somehow more cognisant that their forebears; they exploded quite a few of those larger-than-the-rest brains before they figured out what they were doing wrong.)

Gedda was a full-blooded Hellhound. She was not just a Hellhound, she was from a litter bred back from the original stock, to reinvigorate the Infernal Pack. She was the equivalent of taking a breed beset by problems due to shoddy management of pedigrees, and starting again with a fresh injection of the original, type-specific stock from the founding animal. If Hellhounds could be shown at Crufts, she'd have had the judges twitching on the ground, making incoherent little noises of delight.

Yes, she was small when she chose to manifest. But physical size of the body is only one aspect of the total dog: in order to be considered a good specimen, the animal must have all the attributes sought in that breed. And for a working breed, the Breed Standard will specify in detail the desirable mental characteristics, the instincts, the drives and the inner qualities required to make a dog an exceptional performer. A Border Collie with three legs may still be a great herder. A German Shepherd with floppy ears and a damaged tail can perform vital search and rescue. A Labrador with a scarred face and missing teeth can be an attentive assistance dog. For animals who actually work, not just trot around looking pretty in a show ring, these are the things that really matter.

Hellhounds would definitely be classified as a working breed. Think for a moment what their Breed Standard might specify: what makes a Hellhound a really good Hellhound?

Willingness to work tirelessly. Follow instructions at a distance. Work independent of the handler. Track effortlessly across space and time. Insatiable bloodlust. Capable of unstoppable savagery. Ability to terrify prey to death and beyond just by standing there. Exist as the very essence of horrific, vengeful predation.

And, of course, the dog must show eagerness to work. Taking obvious joy in the task is the rare mark of a true champion.

It isn't the size of the Hellhound that matters; it's the amount of Hell in the Hellhound that counts.

Gedda would've taken home a trophy bigger than herself, and all the sashes she could eat.

And perhaps her habit of usually manifesting as a small toy poodle somehow constrained it, compressed it, to make it even denser, more concentrated, and more dangerous. Just like a nuke on the brink of going critical, should anything add just enough _push_ to unleash a holocaust…

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Crowley's face went the colour of the interior walls of that barn where the incontinent baboons had been flinging faeces as they fought over the anti-diarrhoea tablets.

"Bobby," he whispered, "Bobby, love, that can't be right…"

"I'm pretty sure it is," Bobby replied grimly. "The Hellhound has to be in its truest, purest form."

"But… but…" Crowley sat down hard, reaching unthinkingly inside his jacket for a flask. "You've never _seen_ a Hellhound," he stammered, hands shaking as he unscrewed the lid, "I mean, a Hellhound as it really is. Not just the half-there 'true' forms they take when they manifest Up Here to fetch the souls of sinners, although that can be bad enough with most of them. If we're talking their true, pure form…"

"We are," Bobby interjected.

"Well, they're… they're…" he waved the flask vaguely. "They're… Hellhounds," he managed lamely. "I've had them set on me. Down There. While I was fighting my way to the top of the shitheap. By demons who didn't just want me dead, they wanted me exploded…"

"Gee that narrows the list down," Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Don't joke about this!" Crowley snapped, "It isn't funny!

"Do you see me smiling?" Bobby shot back with a face like thunder. "It's meant to be difficult, Crowley, it's meant to be a Trial! And you got a hell of a get-outta-jail-free card here: you'll know that it's Gedda, who actually does love you, which in my opinion is clearly indicative of some sort o' brain damage, but think how much worse it would've been if you'd had to go try to make friends with one from scratch."

"Oh, well, that's all right then," Crowley let out a little giggle, "I'm going to have the core of my very being shaken like a torn rag doll by soul-wrenching terror, but because it's a Hellhound I know, having my innermost existence shredded by a cosmic entity of incomprehensible power will be less traumatic." He glared at Bobby. "If you were run over by a prime mover, would it hurt any less if the truck was driven by somebody you know, you pillock?"

"Don't take that tone with me, asshat," growled Bobby, "This is self-inflicted for a good part, so it's time for you to grow a pair, and do what needs to be done."

Crowley cast a mournful look at his little Hellpoodle, who was sniffing around the living room with the interest of a dog revisiting a place and checking out all the new smells. "She really is a dear companion," he moaned, "How are we supposed to get her to understand what to do?"

"Easy," scoffed Bobby, "We got the extant Dominican, the Lord o' the Hounds, locked in the panic room. He'll be able to get her to understand."

The King of Hell drooped all over, and looked sadly down at his hipflask. "There's a very good chance that I'll be irreversibly and permanently damaged by this," he sighed, "She won't mean to, but just seeing her as she truly is may well shred me like a cow in a piranha tank, in which case, I would like you to have this." He handed the flask to Bobby.

"Interestin'," Bobby turned the flask over, "This is fine workmanship, a real antique. Worth a small fortune when it was made, which was a number of centuries ago, if I'm any judge."

"It has happy memories associated with it," Crowley told him, "I stole it from the husband of a woman with whom I kept delightful company whilst he was away on business."

"Why does that not surprise me," growled Bobby.

"Don't look at me like that!" sniffed Crowley. "He entertained his mistress and a number of prostitutes whilst he was absent, so what's good for the gander is good for the goose, yes? Anyway," he went on, mournful once more, "When you look at it, think of me, darling, and maybe every so often drink to the memory of my most intimate and inner essence being scattered across the cosmos in tiny slivers of tortured and shrieking id."

"Don't be so melodramatic, Your Majesty," chuckled Bobby. "We won't let it come to that. We'll rig some way to summon you back out of the fire before you get too sooty."

Hope bloomed in Crowley's eyes. "Do you really mean that?" he asked plaintively.

"Course I do," scoffed Bobby gruffly, "Can't have you bein' disintegrated on my watch."

"Oh, Bobby," sighed Crowley, "You truly are a diamond in the rough, a precious gem of value beyond reckoning in a world of dross…"

"Bullshit," snapped Bobby, "I need you more or less compos mentis to finish the other Trials, idjit. So let's go get the other two idjits. And if you're goin' to walk around with that expression, lookin' like a kicked dog, I might just kick you to make it worth your while."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The charm didn't take too long to work up. Dean spoke to Gedda while Bobby and Sam brewed a spell that would let them keep tabs on Crowley, whilst the impending receiver of Hellhound love sat looking like a man waiting to be led to the gallows, which was set up in that barn where the unwell baboons lived and had been stockpiling their excrement in anticipation of the show.

"You'll miss me when I'm gone," he said in a small voice, "If this goes wrong, you'll miss me when I'm gone, and Hell is in uproar, and the Hierarchy all start trying to plant their arses on my bidet of power…"

"If it gets real bad, we could just take over Downstairs," shrugged Dean.

Sam's head snapped up. _"What?"_ he gawped.

"You know, Boy King, The Younger Who Is Greater?" Dean went on. "You've seen that Hell-TV alternative reality. We could go down there, and just, you know, wipe out half the Hierarchy. The ones that might cause trouble. You detect 'em, reject 'em and eject 'em, I'll dissect 'em."

"Dean, we are not going to stage some sort of Hellside coup!" burst out Sam.

"Come on, Sam," Dean wheedled, "Think how much fun it would be! Killing all those demons, redecorating the Unattractive Office, the bouncy castle…"

"No!"

"Minions, Sam! You could have minions!"

"I don't _want_ minions, Dean!"

"You could command them to go forth, and bring you all the lettuces in the world!"

"I don't want all the lettuces in the world, either! What would I _do_ with all the lettuce in the world, except built the biggest compost heap in Creation?"

"Go on, maybe just for a century or two?" He called forth the First Blade, and held it to his own arm. "I can give you a mouthful, just to get you started, and once we'r-

_squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt_

-AAAAAAAAARGH!"

"I said, no," Sam repeated through clenched teeth, handing the spray bottle back to Bobby. "Once you're human again, we can go gank all the demons you want. But for now, we got with the plan."

"Kill-joy," griped Dean, flouncing dramatically to the sofa, where he plonked himself down in a huff.

"So, we're just about good to go," Bobby reached over and plucked a hair from Crowley's head.

"Ow!" yelped the demon, "Hey, I need all of those!"

"Shaddap," Bobby grumped, dropping it into the mortar he was grinding in, "We gotta have a way to keep tabs on what's happenin'." He ground a bit more, then tipped some of the gloopy liquid into a chipped mug. "Here, drink this."

"Er, could I perhaps carry a small vial of it with me?" suggested Crowley, eyeing the stuff dubiously. Bobby frowned, so he sighed, and knocked it back. "Oh, well, that answers that, it does taste just as bad as it looks. So, now what?"

Bobby gave him a grim smile. "You take your dog, go find an off-lead park, and play."

"Right then." Crowley drew himself up, and called Gedda, who'd been enjoying cuddles with Dean. "I go now, possibly to my own doom – should I not prevail, let these be my final thoughts to you: may your chooks turn into emus and kick your dunny down."

"What the fuck does that mean?" asked Dean.

"I have no idea," Crowley confessed, "It's something I picked up from That Shepherd Woman. Whatever it is, I hope it happens to you all. In spades."

"Where will you do this?" asked Sam.

Crowley gave him a disdainful look. "It won't be a 'where' you could possibly understand, you squishy mortal," he snapped, "You might as well as ask me what colour the smell of tomorrow will be. So, chooks, emus, dunny. Get stuffed."

With that, he disappeared, and Gedda with him.

"So, now what?" asked Dean, as Sam hurriedly drew out a summoning on the floor.

"We wait," Bobby nodded towards the contents of the mortar, which had begun to glow with a sickly pulsing red light. "And when that stops showin' the essence of Hell, and starts showin' the essence of love, we'll know he's done it, and if he don't hightail his ass back here ASAP after that, we summon him."

"What does 'essence of love' involve?" asked Dean, "Please tell me there won't be a Celine Dion song involved."

"We'll know it when we see it," Sam told him, "The colour and quality of the light will change. Think about the difference between a Hellhound's eyes, and, and, say, the radiance of Cas, when he manifests with his Angel Of The Lord thing…"

The glowing contents of the mortar swirled…

"Hey, looks like it's happening," he commented.

… And went out.

"Uh," Sam peered into the cold, decidedly unilluminating mess, "That wasn't supposed to happen."

"Balls," muttered Bobby, frantically reaching for ingredients and dropping them into the spell, "Come on, Crowley, don't faint on me now…"

"Do we summon him?" asked Sam anxiously.

"He's gotta be in a state to respond to it," Bobby reminded him, swearing as the mixture failed to reignite its glow, "If we try to yank him back here when we don't know what's happening, we might not get him. Or, we might just get some of him."

"Which bits?" asked Dean curiously.

"Possibly not enough to complete the Trials," muttered Bobby, huffing with frustration. "Damn! What the hell is he playin' at?"

Dean jumped up from the sofa. "I'll go find out," he offered, "Hey, you comin' with me, J-Man?"

Sam's eyes widened in horror. "Dean, no!" he yelped.

He was too late. Dean and his dog Jimi were gone.

* * *

That is indeed an authentic Australian curse that Crowley used, hoping that your domestic chickens transform into large bad-tempered flightless birds and destroy your outdoor toilet.

Oh dear, Dean Dean Dean - he's determined to give Bobby a heart attack, isn't he?

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*Also other nutritious greens as well as lettuce. Just not kale. I have no idea what it is, but I saw it on an 'infotainment' channel touting the benefits of a thing called the NutriBullet, and I have no idea what that is supposed to be either, but from what I could gather, kale, via the NutriBullet, can turn an entire studio audience into a bunch of vacant-eyed fatuous twits. It's clearly dangerous stuff.


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